A Can of Worms

Chapter two

South-east of Paradise City, some thirty miles out in the Gulf, there is a chain of small islands extending down to Key West.

Sitting beside Nick Hardy in his helicopter, I looked down on this chain of islands that looked like green blobs in the blue, glittering sea.

Nick had no trouble spotting Hamel’s yacht. We were already circling the harbour when the yacht slipped its moorings and headed out to sea.

There were other helicopters up: taking the rich on sightseeing tours, so I had no worry that Nancy nor Josh Jones would suspect we were shadowing them.

I used Nick’s field glasses. I could see Nancy on the flying bridge. Jones must have been in the wheelhouse. I couldn’t see him from my position.

“They’re heading for the Keys,” I said. “Head back to the harbour and circle. We can’t lose them, and I don’t want them to catch on we are tailing them.”

Nick, bulky with a red, good-natured face, did as I asked.

“That’s Mrs. Hamel down there,” he said. “What’s the idea, Bart?”

“Since when did you start asking questions? Ask the Colonel if you want to know.”

He grinned.

“Okay. So I don’t want to know.”

The yacht was now approaching the Keys. It slowed, turned and began running along the coastline until it reached Matecombe Key, then it headed towards a group of tiny islands about five miles east.

“What are those islands?” I asked.

“Used to be pirate strongholds,” Nick told me. He was well versed in the history of Florida. “The pirates used to hide up there and pounce on any passing vessel. Blackbeard is supposed to have had his headquarters there. The islands are uninhabited now.”

The yacht slowed and began to edge its way into a wide creek, between two of the islands, half concealed by dense vegetation. Then it disappeared under an umbrella of Spanish moss and grapevines.

I decided it would be too risky to circle and wait to see it the yacht reappeared. Nancy or Jones, or both of them, might guess we were showing too much interest, and that was to be avoided.

“Okay, Nick, back to the pad,” I said, “and if you don’t want the Colonel on your neck, say nothing about this.”

He gave me a puzzled stare, then shrugged.

“You’re the client.” He headed back to the mainland.

“All the same, Bart, she’s a nice girl.”

“How do you know? Have you ever met her?”

“Sure, and Mr. Hamel. I took them to Daytona Beach last month and brought them back. I don’t dig Hamel. He’s a stuffed shirt, but she’s a real charmer: too young to have married him.”

“Did they seem to you to be getting along together?”

“I wouldn’t know. He sat at the back and never uttered. She sat where you are sitting and chatted all the time.”

“About what?”

“She was interested in the chopper: her first trip. She asked all kinds of questions: good questions. She’s no fool.”

So Nancy was nice and no fool, but even nice girls screw around. I changed the subject. I talked to him about his business and asked how he was doing. We were still talking when he landed. As he walked with me to my car, I said, “Keep this close to your chest, Nick.”

“Sure.”

We shook hands, and I drove back to the office. Glenda said the Colonel was tied up, and how did I get on?

I was about to tell her of Nancy’s visit to the pirate stronghold, when I heard, inside my head, Bertha’s voice saying: There’s big money to be made out of these rich creeps. It just needs some thought.

I shifted fast into a lie.

“I followed her in the chopper. She spent the whole afternoon, fishing. A dead waste of time.”

Glenda nodded.

“Could be Hamel is hysterical,” I went on. “It happens.”

“I’ll tell the Colonel.”

I returned to my office. Chick was out. I hoisted the Scotch bottle from my desk drawer, poured myself a drink and lit a cigarette.

It just needs thought.

So I thought. After a while, I decided I would investigate those islands on my own. Maybe Nancy went there to sun bathe in the nude or even to fish, but she might be meeting Waldo Carmichael and having it off with him. Those islands were discreet. Suppose this was what she’s doing? Because I was on the Colonel’s payroll, I should report to him I had reason to believe that Nancy was suspect. But suppose I didn’t? What was in it for me if said nothing about her visit to the pirate island?

I poured another drink, and did some more thinking, then I pulled the telephone towards me and dialled Toni Lamberti’s number. Toni hired out boats for fishing. I had often rented one of his boats on a day off when Bertha wanted a breath of sea air. I fixed it with him to have a boat with an outboard motor for 05.00.

“How long will you want it, Mr. Anderson?”

“Until midday.”

“For cash, Mr. Anderson, I can give you a discount. Twenty dollars: credit thirty dollars.”

“Okay, cash.”

“The boat will be ready. Help yourself.”

As I hung up, Chick came in.

“What’s the action?” he asked as he sat down.

“She fished. No action.”

“For Pete’s sake!”

“Yeah, but I enjoyed the trip. And you?”

“I worked my goddamn feet off. I’m now willing to bet Waldo Carmichael doesn’t exist. Even the cops don’t know him. I’ve checked all the hotels and the motels. I’ve even checked the hospitals: no Waldo Carmichael.”

I got to my feet.

“Let’s tell the Colonel.”

We had to wait ten minutes before Parnell was free, then I reported that so far we had come up with nothing.

“It all points to some crank needling Hamel,” I said. “From information, his wife is nice, a charmer and no fool. No one I’ve talked to has a word against her.”

“And this guy Waldo Carmichael is not in the district,” Chick added.

Parnell pulled at his nose while he thought.

“We can’t leave it like that,” he said finally. “It’s too soon to call off the operation. You’ve only been watching for two days. Give it to the end of the week, Bart.” He turned to Chick. “No point both of you working on this. Something else has come up you can work on.” To me, “You take care of Mrs. Hamel. If she goes off on the yacht again, let her go, but keep on her tail when she’s not on the yacht. If, at the end of the week, you have a negative report, I’ll talk to Palmer and see what he wants done.” He waved me to the door and Chick to a chair.

I returned to my office. With Chick off the case, I would have a free hand. It would take me a couple of hours to reach the islands. No one at the office would know I wasn’t tailing Nancy. I could spend the whole morning snooping around the islands, and if I didn’t come up with something, I could tag after Nancy in the afternoon.

Then I remembered I had nine more days before payday and I had less than thirty dollars in my wallet. I would have to pay twenty dollars for the hire of the boat! I sat bolt upright in alarm.

I was overdrawn at the bank. I sat back and considered my bleak, immediate future. Unless I found a sucker good for a loan, I was faced with a drink and food problem. I had never, been in such a squeeze. I cursed myself for taking Bertha to the Seagull. Then I told myself it had been a super feed. Regret nothing: there must be a way. I began to consider my various friends who had helped out in the past. After mulling over the names, I was forced to admit there was no hope. My so called friends now crossed the street when they saw me coming.

Bertha?

I brightened. An idea. Sold right, she just might be good for a touch, but she would have to be carefully handled. I had never put the bite on her, but there was always a first time.

By my watch, it was 17.40. Bertha usually left the fashion house around 18.00. If I hurried, I might just catch her. I hurried.

Arriving at the parking bay where she always left her Honda, I saw the car was still there. Lighting a cigarette, I waited. Then minutes later, she came briskly from the building.

“Hi, there, babe,” I said, catching hold of her arm. “How’s this for a surprise?”

She regarded me suspiciously. I could see she wasn’t in her usual gay mood.

“Why aren’t you working?” she demanded.

“That’s a nice way to greet your bedfellow. Did anyone tell you you look more gorgeous than you did last night? Did they?”

“You can cut out the baloney,” she snapped. “What are you doing here?”

“I felt I had to feast my eyes on you. Come over to my car. I want to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to sit in your car. Take me somewhere for a drink.”

Knowing that Bertha only drank champagne cocktails, I tightened my grip on her arm and steered her towards the Maserati.

“This is business, babe. I’ve been thinking about what you said last night.”

“I want a drink! What did I say last night?”

I opened the car door and practically shoved her in, then ran around and got in under the steering wheel.

“You came up with a profound idea,” I said. “Have a cigarette.”

She took one grudgingly and I lit it, then lit one for myself.

“I don’t remember what I said. What was it?”

“I’ll quote you. You said: ‘I’d look around among the rich creeps I work for and put the bite on them.’ Remember?”

She lost her sulky look and her eyes narrowed.

“Yes, I said that. So what?”

“I’ve been thinking. The more I thought the brighter the suggestion became. I have an idea at the back of my mind that I could lay my hands on a big slice of money, and if I do, I won’t forget my bed-fellow.”

“I hear you. There’s a catch in this, but I’ll listen.”

“I need a very small amount of capital to get this idea on its feet,” I said. “How would you like to be my partner?”

Her eyes snapped.

“Are you asking me for money?”

“Put like that, the answer is yes. Strictly a loan, plus twenty percent interest for ten days. That also buys you a piece of the action.”

“What action...”

“That must remain a secret, babe.” I gave her my mysterious smile. “I guarantee repayment in ten days. You know I wouldn’t welch on you, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t!” She studied me. “Are you going to try to put the bite on Russ Hamel?”

“Who even mentioned him? I didn’t.”

“You’re working for him. You were asking about him last night. You turned shifty when Tasked if you were working for him and that told me you are.”

I sighed.

“Strictly between the two of us, babe, I am. He thinks his wife is two-timing him and he’s hired us to watch her, but for God’s sake, keep this under your bra.”

“That little ninny?” Bertha said scornfully. “He’s crazy! She’s not the type to play around. All she’s good for is tennis and fishing.”

“Yeah, but she just might have been led astray. Now suppose she found some rich creep, younger than Hamel, who worked on her. She’s lonely, with Hamel working all day, so this creep takes her around, works on her, and finally they have a big romance. It’s happened before, and will happen again.”

Bertha shrugged.

“Maybe. So where do you come in?”

“I’m working on that, babe. What I need is a little capital.”

“How much?”

I could see she was interested. I was going to put the bite on for fifty dollars, but decided not to stint myself.

“Let’s say three hundred, and...”

“Three hundred!” she practically screamed. “You need your head examined.”

“Okay, forget it, babe. I’ll find someone else. This is a loan, not a gift. I know dozens of guys and dolls who’ll loan me a lousy three hundred at twenty percent for ten days.”

“You are a liar. No one except me would loan you five dollars. Okay, Bart.” She opened her bag and took out her purse. “A hundred and fifty, repaid in ten days at twenty percent.”

I peered into her purse. It seemed stuffed with the green.

“Have you been robbing a bank?”

She thrust the two bills at me and snapped her purse shut.

“If you do get your hands on a big slice of money, I expect a rake-off. Understood?”

“You’ll get it when I get it.” I put the two bills in my wallet, feeling rich again.

“Now we’ll have a drink. Come on, drive me to Caesar’s. I’m thirsty.”

I hesitated. A champagne cocktail at Caesar’s bar cost ten dollars. I didn’t hesitate for more than a couple of seconds. I was rich again. What’s money for except to spend?

I started the engine and headed for Caesar’s bar.

I arrived at the pirates’ islands a little after 06.30. It had been a hell of a struggle to get myself awake by 04.30, but with the aid of an alarm clock and three cups of strong coffee, I more or less made it.

As Bertha had had a date, after drinking two champagne cocktails, and asking more questions which didn’t get her anywhere, she had left me. I had returned to my apartment and made preparations for the morning. I dug out my jungle uniform I practically lived in when in Vietnam. The camouflage blouse, the tuck-in drill trousers, the jungle boots, plus a hunting knife, I packed in a holdall. I added a floppy hat, insect repellent and a thermos of iced Scotch and water.

On my way down to the quay, I bought a pack of beef sandwiches from an all-night café. I found the boat waiting for me.

When I was in sight of the islands, I cut the outboard engine and changed into the jungle uniform. It felt odd to be wearing those clothes again, but from the look of the dense vegetation of the islands, they were the clothes to wear.

After smearing my face and arms with the insect repellent, knowing the mosquitoes were man-eaters, I headed for the wide creek where Nancy’s yacht had disappeared.

I took it slowly: the outboard engine just ticking over and almost soundless. I steered the boat under the canopy of Spanish moss and vines. After the dazzle of the sun, it was as if I was moving into a hot, steamy tunnel. Swarms of mosquitoes buzzed around my head, but the repellent kept them at bay. Ahead of me, I saw the sunlight, and in a few moments, I edged the boat into a tiny lagoon. I cut the engine and let the boat drift to the near bank. I saw a well-worn path leading into the jungle. There was a stout post, driven into the bank, and I guessed this was used to moor the yacht. I made my boat fast to the post, then slinging the holdall over my shoulder, I set off cautiously along the path, my eyes alert for snakes, my hunting knife in my hand. I walked for about a quarter of a mile. Ivory billed woodpeckers and blue jays scattered into the overhead foliage at my approach. The heat was oppressive and sweat ran off me. Ahead of me, I saw the path took a sharp turn, and from the increased light, I guessed, around the corner, was a clearing.

All my jungle training came back to me. I crept forward, avoiding the creepers, making no sound until I reached the massive trunk of a dead tree. From behind its shelter, I was able to see the clearing.

Pitched in the shade was a green canvas jungle tent. It was the kind of tent I used to live in in Vietnam: big enough to accommodate four men comfortably. The entrance to the tent was laced up. To the side of the tent was a portable barbeque and two canvas folding chairs. The grass and weeds around the site were trampled flat.

This scene puzzled me. Surely, I wondered, this couldn’t be a love nest? I found it hard to believe that Nancy came here to meet a lover. It must be like an oven inside that tent.

I remained, still, wondering if anyone was inside the tent. The fact that the entrance was laced shut suggested no one was. I looked around, chose a big flowering shrub some yards from the path and moving silently, I squatted down behind the shrub, out of sight, but with a good view of the tent.

Mosquitoes buzzed around me. Apart from bird noises, the jungle was silent. I wiped my face, opened the holdall and took a drink from the thermos. I wanted a cigarette, but decided that the smoke might give me away. I settled down to wait. It was a long, sweltering wait. I kept looking at my watch. When the hands crawled to 08.45, I heard a sound that made me flatten out on the ground: the sound of a man, whistling. Then came the sound of the crackling of dead leaves and the swish of vines as they were impatiently pushed aside. Whoever was approaching was confident of being alone. He was taking no precautions.

Peering through the leaves of the shrub, I saw a man come out of the jungle on the far side of the clearing. He was of medium height, broad shouldered and muscular. At a guess he was around twenty-five or six years of age. His black hair was long and unkempt. His bushy beard concealed most of his features. He was wearing a long-sleeved dark green shirt and black trousers, tucked into Mexican boots. In one hand he carried a fishing rod, and in the other, two fair sized Black Crappie, already gutted and cleaned.

As he set about igniting the barbeque, I lay motionless, puzzled. Could this tough looking hippy be Waldo Carmichael? I thought not, but it was just possible that he was. Watching his deft movements, seeing the muscles rippling under his sweat-soaked shirt, I thought it was possible a girl like Nancy might fall for him.

With the fish sizzling on the grill, he unlaced the entrance to the tent and went inside. He returned into the open after a few minutes, carrying a tin plate and a knife and fork. I watched him eat. When he had finished the meal and was burying the debris, I decided to take action. Moving silently, I made a wide sweep and got back on the path again. I started off towards the clearing, deliberately making a noise, by scuffling up dead leaves, and as I reached the corner of the path, leading to the clearing, I began to whistle. I wanted to warn him of my approach. I had an instinctive feeling that it would be bad tactics to sneak up on him.

As I moved into the clearing, I saw him standing by the tent. He was holding a .22 rifle, and it was pointing in my direction.

I stopped short and gave him my friendly smile.

“Hi, there! Excuse me. I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought I had this island to myself.”

He lowered the barrel of the rifle so that it pointed now at my feet, but I could see he was tense and jumpy.

“Who are you?” His voice was low and husky.

I could see I had given him a hell of a scare.

“Bart Anderson. All right for me to approach? That rifle looks kind of unfriendly.” I smiled again. “It might go off.”

He remained as watchful as a cornered cat.

“Stay where you are. What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Blackbeard’s cave,” I said. “Would you know where it is?”

“There’s no cave on this island. Beat it!”

“Are you sure? There was a guy at the Neptune bar who told me for sure it’s here.”

“I said beat it!”

“Are you a hermit or something?” Still smiling, I began to edge forward.

The rifle came up.

“Beat it! I’m not telling you again!” The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. Don’t you want...”

The gun went off with a cracking sound. The slug churned up the leaves at my feet. It was a one-shot gun. I moved fast. I was on him while he was groping for another slug.

His reflexes were snake-like. If I hadn’t been trained in jungle fighting, he would have crippled me with the kick he aimed at my groin. The kick, a solid one, landed on my thigh and sent me staggering. He swung the rifle and the butt just missed my face. As he swung again, I weaved into him and landed a short arm jab into his belly with all my weight behind it. His breath came out of him with the hiss of a punctured tyre and he went down on his knees. As he was trying to drag air into his empty lungs, I chopped down hard on the back of his neck. He flattened out, face down.

I went quickly to the tent and peered inside. There were two beds, well separated, a canvas washbasin on a collapsible stand and a folding table. On one side of the table were a woman’s things: a hairbrush, comb, toothbrush, scent spray and face powder. On the other side of the table were his things: a toothbrush, mug, cigarettes and a cheap lighter.

I looked back at him. He was moving. I went over to the rifle, picked it up, then squatted away from him and waited.

He came slowly alive, pushed himself onto his knees, and then hauled himself upright. His hand massaged the back of his neck as he glared at me.

“Let’s be friendly,” I said, and stood up. I was watching him closely. There was a dangerous gleam in his slate-grey eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “And cut that crap about Blackbeard’s cave. What do you want?”

“Let’s say I’m looking for some peace and quiet — like you,” I said, and smiled at him. “These islands are great if a guy wants to drop out of sight until the climate cools.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What are you... a deserter?”

“Let’s just say I’m looking for peace and quiet,” I said. “If you’re on the same wagon, then maybe I could confide in you. Are you?”

He hesitated, then shrugged.

“I kicked the Army six months ago. I’ve had enough of that bull.”

I was sure he was lying. He hadn’t the stamp of an Army man. After serving three years as an M.P., I knew an ex-Army man when I saw him.

“Well, you have a nice spot here: nice tent. Are you aiming to stay long?”

“As long as it suits me. There’s no room here for you. Go find another island.”

I was thinking about the woman’s things I had seen in the tent. Was there a woman on the island with him or were those Nancy’s things?

“Okay,” I said. “I like company, but if you don’t want me around...” I shrugged. “I guess I’ll look elsewhere. Good luck, soldier,” and I walked over to the shrub where I had hidden, and picked up my holdall.

“How did you get here?” he demanded.

“The same way as you did.” I gave him a wave, then started along the path back to my boat.

I hadn’t been walking for more than three or four minutes when I heard him following me. He hadn’t had jungle training, but he wasn’t too bad. If I hadn’t been alert, I wouldn’t have known he was following me. I kept on until I reached the boat. I knew he was within a few yards of me, but he didn’t break cover. He was just making sure I left.

I got in the boat, cast loose, started the outboard engine and headed back down the long, dark tunnel to the sea. I was sure he would watch me out of sight, so I headed back to the mainland, then when the islands disappeared below the horizon, I altered course and made for Matecombe Key. I tied up in the small harbour, crossed the quay to a fisherman’s bar.

The negro barkeep regarded me, surprise in his black eyes, then his lips peeled off in a big grin.

“Thought I was back in the Army, boss,” he said. “That jungle outfit sure brings back memories.”

The bar was empty except for him and myself. I climbed onto a stool.

“Beer.”

He uncapped a bottle and poured. I had a thirst that would slay a camel. I drank the beer, pushed the empty glass towards him and lit a cigarette.

“I’ve been looking at the pirates’ islands,” I said. “This outfit is right for those jungles.”

“You can say that again.” He poured another beer. “Nothing out there but birds. The Indians used to live there. That was before my time. No one there now.”

“Have a beer.”

“Too early for me, boss, but thanks.”

I looked at my watch. It was a little after eleven.

“Anyway I can hire a rod and tackle?” I asked. “I’m on vacation, getting a little sun.”

“I’ll let you have mine. I saw you come in. That’s one of Toni’s boats if I ain’t mistaken.”

“Right. I hired it for the day. You’ll let me have your rod?”

“Sure. I’ll get it.” He went behind a dirty curtain and I heard him rummaging around. After a while, he came back with a nice little rod and a can of bait.

I put my last fifty-dollar bill on the bar counter.

“Just in case I fall overboard,” I said as I took the rod and the bait from him. “I may not be back until five. Okay?”

He shoved the bill back to me.

“We’re veterans, boss. I don’t need security from you.”

I was glad to get the bill back. I thanked him and went back to the boat. When I was out to sea, I cut the engine and changed back into my shirt and slacks. I stowed the uniform in the holdall, then headed back to the islands. I gave the creek, leading to the hippy’s hideout, a wide berth and got under the over-hanging trees of an island some quarter of a mile from the creek. I unpacked the sandwiches and ate them while I thought.

What was this man doing, hiding up on the island? He was no Army deserter. Had he a woman with him or did Nancy use the things I had seen in the tent? Another thing, I told myself: that tent cost money. The hippy didn’t look as if he was worth a dime. Was Nancy staking him?

To pass the time, I began to fish, but my heart wasn’t in it. I kept thinking and puzzling, but I came up with nothing. I had to get more facts, and more information. All the same, the setup intrigued me.

Around 15.00, I heard the distant sound of a motorboat. I laid down my rod, grabbed hold of the over-hanging branches, and hauled the boat out of sight.

A few minutes later I saw Hamel’s yacht approaching fast. It headed for the creek, cut speed, then disappeared under the foliage.

I hesitated. Suppose Nancy had left Josh Jones to keep watch? It would be fatal if he spotted me. So I decided to wait. An hour crawled by. I sat in the boat, slapping at mosquitoes and sweltering. Then I heard the yacht’s motor start up, and a moment later, it appeared, and went racing towards the mainland.

I decided to have another talk with the hippy. I could tell him I had run out of gas and could I buy some off him? He wasn’t to know that I was sure he hadn’t a boat, and Nancy was acting as his life-line. Whether he was her lover or not, I was willing to bet she had got him on the island and probably had bought him the camping outfit.

I started up the engine and steered the boat to the creek. I tied up at the mooring post, then set off briskly down the winding path, making no attempt to conceal my approach.

I reached the sharp bend in the path that would bring me to the clearing. Rounding the bend, I came to an abrupt stop.

The clearing was deserted, and had an empty, used look. There was no tent, no two folding chairs, no barbeque. It was obvious my hippy bird had flown, helped by Nancy and Josh Jones. The moment they had arrived, my hippy must have told them of my visit and the decision to pack and get out was a matter of minutes.

At least, it told me something: this hippy was in bad trouble. He wasn’t taking a risk that I might tell anyone he was on the island.

I began to wander over the flattened grass where the tent had been pitched. With this hasty exodus, something might have been left behind. After some minutes of searching, I came across the cheap nickel cigarette lighter I had seen on the folding table. I knelt and regarded it, without touching it. If my luck held, I thought, that flat nickel surface might just carry a fingerprint. I took out my handkerchief, dropped it over the lighter, then scooped it up. I wrapped it carefully, then put it in my pocket. I looked further, but found nothing, so moving fast, I returned to the boat.

The time now was 16.30. I had to stop off at Matecumbe Key to return the fishing tackle. I wouldn’t be back at the office much before 19.00. It was possible Harry Meadows, in charge of our lab, might still be there.

I started the outboard engine and headed for Matecumbe Key.

Glenda was leaving her office when I arrived.

“The Colonel around?” I asked.

“Missed him by five minutes.” She gave me a cool stare. “Anything new?”

“Not a thing. I tailed after her the whole afternoon,” I lied. “She behaved as any wife would behave, shop, window gazing, tea with a bunch of women, then home. Man! Do I hate wife watching!”

“That’s part of your job,” Glenda said curtly, and took herself off.

I went along the corridor until I came to the lab. I found Harry Meadows sitting on a stool, peering through a microscope.

Harry was tall, lean and pushing seventy. At one time he was in charge of the Paradise City police laboratory. When it came for him to retire, Parnell had offered him the job of running the Agency’s small, but efficient laboratory. Meadows, who couldn’t imagine what he would do with himself once retired, jumped at the offer.

“Hi, Harry,” I said, shutting the door. “Still working?”

Harry glanced up and nodded.

“Fooling really,” he said. “It passes the time, better than watching T.V. at home. What can I do for you?”

I produced the lighter, still in my handkerchief.

“See if there are any prints on this, will you, Harry, and lift them? I want them checked.”

“I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow morning, Bart. Do you want the prints sent to Washington?”

“Sure. I want the works on this one.” As I was turning to the door, I asked. “Anything on those poison pen letters Chick gave you?”

“They were written on an I.B.M. 82C golf ball machine: delegate type. I got some smudged prints off the letters, but they have been well handled, and the prints amount to nothing. The paper is interesting. I have samples of all notepapers sold in this city. This paper is special. My guess it could be Italian. That’s a guess.”

Knowing Harry’s guesses were pretty accurate, I filed that information away for future reference.

“What happened to the letters?”

“I gave them to Glenda with the report.”

“Okay, Harry. Let me know if you find any prints on that lighter. See you,” and I went back to my office. Chick had gone. I sat down and did some thinking.

Where had Nancy moved my hippy? I couldn’t imagine her bringing him to the harbour which was always crowded. It would cause a lot of gossip if anyone spotted him leaving the yacht. If I were in her place, I would leave him below deck until around 03.00, when the quay was always deserted, and get him off the yacht with every chance of him not being seen.

I decided to spend the night down on the quay. There was plenty of time. I took my .38 police special from my desk drawer, loaded it and put on my holster. Then I left my office, and rode the elevator down to the garage.

It would be dark in another three hours. I wondered if Bertha was free, but decided against calling her. She would land me with an expensive dinner. I warned myself I would have to conserve what money I had.

I drove down to the waterfront, parked the car, then wandered aimlessly along, past the fish stalls, the fruit vendors, and towards the yacht basin.

I spotted Al Barney sitting on his usual bollard, a beer can in his hand. I gave him a wide berth. Mingling with the tourists and the fishermen, I got by him without him seeing me.

It occurred to me to go to the Alameda bar. I could take a look at Gloria Cort, Hamel’s ex-wife, and her boyfriend, Alphonso Diaz, and have dinner at the same time.

I slowed as I approached the vast yacht basin. There were about six hundred swank yachts moored to the walk-around harbour. Hamel’s yacht was sandwiched between a sailboat and another motor yacht. The gangplank was run in, and Josh Jones sat in a canvas chair, whittling wood with a dangerous looking flick knife. His big body was set before the entrance to the companion way.

I was careful to give him only a glance, then walked on. It looked as if he were mounting guard which pointed to my hippy being below. I was pretty sure there would be no action until after midnight when the quay would thin out, so slightly increasing my stride, I headed for the Alameda bar at the far end of the quay.

This was Wednesday night, and most of the bars were slack. They came alive at the weekends when the fishermen and the dock workers had money to burn.

As I continued on my way, I saw a news-stall that sold paperbacks and newspapers. I jostled through the crowd. There were several of Russ Hamel’s books on display: all of them with sexy, lurid jackets. I bought one: Love is a Lonely Thing. The girl on the jacket looked pensive. She had traffic-stopping breasts.

I continued on until I reached the Alameda bar. The entrance was guarded by an anti-fly curtain. Pushing this aside, I walked into a big room with a horse-shoe shaped bar to my left, a dais on which a negro pianist played soft, mournful jazz, and a number of tables scattered around, laid for eating.

There were more than a dozen men up at the bar. Three Mexican waiters, in black, wearing long white aprons, stood around, trying to look busy. The barkeep was a big, fat Mexican who regarded me with an oily smile. He was bald, greasy, and sported a long, drooping moustache.

The men at the bar were tough looking fishermen. None of them bothered to look my way. I went over to one of the distant tables and sat down, placing Hamel’s book on the table.

One of the waiters, young, dark, came over, and lifted his eyebrows.

“What have you got?” I asked.

“Our special, Signor. Arroz con polio. Very good.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Young chicken, rice, red peppers, asparagus tips. Very special.”

“Okay, and Scotch on the rocks.”

I saw him looking at the girl on the paperback.

“Some chick, huh?” I said.

He gave me a long stare, then walked away. Settling myself on the chair, I lit a cigarette and picked up the book. I learned from the blurb on the back cover that: this explosive novel, written by the sensational master of American fiction, soon to be a motion picture, has already sold over 5,000,000 copies.

The fat barkeep came over and put a Scotch on the rocks on the table. He showed me yellow teeth in a friendly smile, then returned to the bar.

After a ten minute wait, I got served. I was hungry, and the chicken looked good. The waiter put the dish before me, nodded and joined the other waiters.

While I was helping myself, three tourists came in: two elderly women and a youth festooned with cameras. They sat down away from me.

I ate. The chicken was tough, and the peppers hot, but I had eaten worse. It was while I was dissecting the drumstick, a woman came from behind a curtain at the far end of the room, paused to look around, then came over to my table.

She had thick hair, dyed the colour of mashed carrots.

She had good features, a lush body, showed to advantage by white, skin tight trousers, and a green halter that just kept her breasts under control, but only just. She paused at my table and smiled. Her white teeth were too regular to be her own.

“Enjoying it?” she asked.

I guessed she was Gloria Cort.

I gave her my sexy smile.

“A lot better now you have arrived.”

She laughed.

“Lonely?”

I noticed the three tourists were staring with disapproval. I half got up and eased out of the chair.

“Have a drink with me.”

She signalled and the waiter came across like a grey-hound out of the trap.

“Scotch,” she said, and sat down. “You’re a stranger here,” she went on. “I’m good at remembering faces.”

I stared hard at her breasts.

“I would remember if I had seen you before.”

Again she laughed.

“I see you’re reading one of my ex’s books.”

I put on a surprised expression.

“Come again. Did you say your husband’s book?”

“We parted last year.”

“Well, what do you know!” I pushed my plate aside. “Tell me something: what’s it like to be married to a bestselling author?”

She grimaced.

“I wouldn’t know about other authors, but Russ was just a pain in the ass. His books are loaded with sex. Have you read that thing yet?”

“I just bought it. I haven’t read his stuff. Knowing he lives here, I thought I’d take a look.”

“You think a guy who could write that stuff would be good in bed, wouldn’t you?” She leaned forward, her head on one side. “Was I conned? He’s as useful to a woman as boiled spaghetti.”

“It happens,” I said. “Tough on the woman.”

“You can say that again.”

The waiter came over and cleared the dishes. I said I’d take coffee.

“He’s married again, hasn’t he?”

“She’s welcome. I’ve seen her: strictly for the birds. There are some girls who don’t mind.” She gave me a long, sexy smile. “I do.”

The waiter brought the coffee.

“Do you like it here?” I said. “You do an act, don’t you?”

“Only Saturdays when we get busy. It’s all right.” She got to her feet. “See you around,” and with a smile, she walked over to the three tourists who were being served with the special. She had a word with them, then went back behind the curtain.

I lit a cigarette and sipped the coffee. I had a little information. Russ Hamel could be impotent. I thought of Nancy, seeing her in my mind’s eye. If she wasn’t getting it from Hamel, maybe a tough hippy would find her an easy mark.

I began reading Hamel’s book. It started off with a seduction scene that gave me a hard-on. He certainly could produce a vivid scene.

After a couple of chapters, the waiter came over with the check. I paid, tipped him, then wandered out into the darkness. I had still some hours to kill. I wasn’t interested in Hamel’s heroine. I would have liked to have met her in the flesh, but on paper, she was too remote. I dropped the book into a trashcan, then wandered back along the quay, passing Hamel’s yacht.

There was light enough for me to see Josh Jones was still sitting on guard. I gave him a quick glance and kept moving. The tourists had returned to their hotels, but fishermen still moved around or stood in groups, talking. I saw Al Barney still sitting hopefully on his bollard. I kept well clear of him. I was now looking for a place where I could watch the Hamel yacht, and not be seen. I had two hours before midnight. A big moon had come up, making the sea glitter and casting the quay into deep shadows. A small café-bar was shutting for the night. A tired looking waiter pulled down the shutters, then he went inside, closing the door. There was a wooden bench, close to the wall of the café, and under a shabby awning. I went over to it and sat down. I could see the Hamel yacht, about a hundred yards from me. I was sure Jones couldn’t see me.

I waited. The life of a shamus consists of waiting, and I am good at it. I watched one group of fishermen after another break up. These men would be out to sea at dawn, and they began reluctantly to make for their homes.

Around 23.00, Al Barney tossed his empty beer can into the harbour and getting heavily to his feet, waddled off into the darkness. By now the quay was almost deserted.

A few night-watchmen, guarding the more swank yachts, stood in a group. A cop went by. Two thin cats appeared. One of them came over and sniffed at my trousers cuff. I gave it a sharp nudge with my foot, and it slid away.

I now concentrated on Hamel’s yacht. It was just as well that I did for I suddenly realized that Josh Jones was no longer sitting in his chair.

I got to my feet, alert.

Minutes passed, then I saw three shadowy figures on deck and I heard the gang plank run out. Almost immediately the three figures were on the quay. They paused to look in the direction of the night watchmen who had their backs turned to them, then they started off away from them.

Keeping in the shadows, I moved after them. As they passed under an overhead light, I saw the taller of the three was Jones. The other, by his shock of black hair, would be my hippy. The third member of the party was a woman. She was slightly built, and wearing a scarf over her head. I guessed she was the one who had shared the tent with my hippy on the pirates’ island.

They didn’t go far. They turned down a narrow alley. Stepping silently from dark doorway to dark doorway, I followed them.

I saw Jones pause, then beckoning to his companions, he disappeared through an archway.

Cautiously, I peered around the arch, and was in time to see Jones open a door and move out of sight, followed by the other two. Remembering Al Barney had told me Josh Jones had a room off the waterfront, I guessed Jones had reached home.

I moved into the shadows and waited.

A light went on in a third floor window. I saw Jones come to the window and look out, then he moved out of sight.

I waited.

After an hour, the light went out.

Still I waited.

Nothing happened, then as dawn began to lift the shadows, I gave up and went home.