A Can of Worms

Chapter three

Some fifteen years ago, Pete Lewinski was considered to be the best and nicest cop on the waterfront. He had patrolled the waterfront from his rookie days, and even the drug-pushers, the smugglers and the young dropouts agreed they always got a square deal from Pete.

Then one day, Pete bought his wife Carrie, a dishwasher. Everyone on the waterfront knew Pete adored his wife. She was a fat, jolly Swede who liked her liquor, and she, in turn, thought everything of Pete. So on her forty-second birthday, Pete bought her this dishwasher. Carrie was a good cook, but the clearing up depressed her. The dishwasher was the nicest present, she told everyone on the waterfront, she had ever had, and the fishermen, their wives, the riff-raff, the fruit and shellfish vendors, and even the drug-pushers, were pleased for her.

It wasn’t clear what happened, but three years after the dishwasher had been installed, Pete, returning from a spell of duty, found Carrie dead, beside the machine.

It was thought something had-gone wrong with the machine and Carrie, with a load on, had fiddled and got electrocuted.

From that dreadful moment when Pete walked into the small kitchen and found Carrie, like a stranded whale, lying on the floor, he went to pieces. His many waterfront friends, worried by his dazed expression, insisted that he should take a little of the hard stuff to bolster up his morale. Pete had always been a mild drinker, and never took a drink when on duty. Finding Scotch blurred the edges of his grief, he began to drink heavily. Chief of Police Terrell who doted on his own wife, was understanding. He talked to Pete, but he could have saved his breath.

Two vicious kids attempted to hold up one of the many waterfront bars. Pete, loaded, appeared on the scene and shot the kids to death. When he was sober enough to realize what he had done, he had wept. Chief of Police Terrell had no alternative but to retire him. The City’s administration officer refused Pete a pension. After spending his small savings, Pete became just another of the many riff-raff that haunt the waterfront, picking up a job here and there, living rough.

Through Al Barney who was a close friend of Pete, I got to know this big hulk of a man with his red-rimmed eyes and his close cropped white hair, and when I ran into him, I slid him a pack of cigarettes, knowing that but for the dishwasher, he would still be keeping law and order on the waterfront.

Around 09.00 the following morning after I had followed Josh Jones and his two companions back to Jones’ room, I went in search of Pete.

The sun was beginning to show some authority, and I was feeling jaded, after only a few hours’ sleep. I walked along the quay. It was too early for Al Barney to be on show. He only came out of his room when the tourists appeared, but I found Pete mending a fisherman’s net, sitting on an upturned box.

“Hi, Pete,” I said.

He looked up and smiled at me. His raddled face was heavily tanned and his blue eyes were watering.

“Hi, Bart,” he said. “You’re early.”

“I’m working on a job. Can you leave that net and have a coffee?”

He carefully arranged the net, then stood up.

“Sure. There’s no hurry. A coffee? Yeah, I could use a coffee.”

We walked over to the Neptune bar. I noticed Pete was dragging his feet. He moved slowly, like a sick elephant.

Sam beamed at me as Pete and I settled at a table.

“Morning, Mr. Anderson,” he said, coming over.and giving the table a polish with a dirty cloth What’ll it be?

“Two coffees, a bottle of Scotch, one glass and water,” I said, not looking at Pete.

“Right away, Mr. Anderson,” and Sam hurried back to the bar.

“Pete, I have a job for you,” I said, keeping my voice low. “It pays twenty bucks.”

Pete stared at me, his eyes popping.

“You can’t mean...” He stopped short as Sam put a jug of coffee, the Scotch, mugs and a glass on the table. When he had returned to the bar, Pete went on, “What’s the job, Bart? Could I use a twenty!” He was staring at the bottle of Scotch the way a kid looks at ice cream.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Take a shot.”

“I shouldn’t, but maybe just one. It’s early.”

With a trembling hand, he poured the Scotch into the glass until the glass was full. I looked away, hating to watch the further disintegration of a decent, nice man, but knowing he was hooked, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

I gave him a few moments, then said, “Do you know anything about Josh Jones?”

Pete wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, drew in a long slow breath.

“Tosh Jones? There’s no one on the waterfront I don t know. He’s a no-good nigger. He works for this rich author, Mr. Hamel. He would sell his mother...”

“I know all that,” I broke in. “I’ve talked to Al Barney.”

Pete nodded. His hand strayed to the bottle. His hand paused.

“Go ahead, Pete. I know you need it.”

“I guess.” He poured another shot that would have had me walking across the ceiling.

“Pete, I want you to fix it that Jones is tailed. I want to know everything he is doing. He has two people in his room. I want to know when they leave, where they go: a man and a woman. Can you fix it?”

He poured the Scotch down his throat, sighed, stretched his big frame, then with a steady hand poured coffee for me and for himself.

“No problem, Bart. I have a bunch of kids who’ll stick with Jones like glue and these other two.”

“Then get it organized.” I sipped the coffee, then went on. “It’s important these three get no idea they are being watched. The man is medium height, black hair and beard. I didn’t get much of a look at the woman, but they are together.”

“It pays twenty?”

I looked across at the bar. Sam had his back turned, I slid a twenty to Pete.

“There will be more.” I took out my business card. “Call me if the man and the woman move. Okay?”

Pete nodded. He was now a cop. The Scotch had brought him back to the time when he had been a good cop.

“You can rely on me, Bart.”

“Take the Scotch with you. This is important to me.”

He grinned, showing black, rotten stumps.

“Okay, Bart. No problem.”

I left him, paid for the Scotch and the coffees, then went out into the sunshine.

It was the best I could do, I told myself. Not good, but better than nothing.

I walked to where I had left the Maser, got in and drove to the entrance to Paradise Largo. I sat in the car with Bob Dylan on tape to keep me company, and waited for Nancy Hamel to appear.

Chick Barley was fortifying himself with Scotch when I returned to the office.

With the money Bertha had loaned me, I had bought a bottle of Cutty Sark. As I unwrapped the bottle, Chick asked, “Whose ear did you bite?”

I sat at my desk, poured a shot and grinned at him.

“I have friends. What’s with it with you?”

He blew out his cheeks.

“Don’t even mention it. There are times when I hate this job. The Paradise Self-Service store has trouble. One of the staff is taking them to the cleaners. So I walk around the goddamn store, making threatening gestures. What a job! And you?”

“Nothing. It’s a complete waste of time and money.”

I had followed Nancy to the club, watched her play tennis with Penny Highbee, watched her lunch on a prawn salad, then followed her down to the waterfront. She didn’t use the yacht, but wandered around like someone killing time. She bought some oysters and a lobster, then she drove home: a lonely woman, apparently with nothing to do, but now I knew different. I was hoping she would have gone to Josh Jones’ place, but she didn’t. There was no sign of Jones either on the yacht or on the waterfront.

Having finished my drink, I went along to Glenda’s office. She told me the Colonel was tied up. I gave her the report I had churned out on the typewriter.

“Like I said... nothing.”

“Well, stay with it,” Glenda said. “Something might happen.”

“Like the end of the world? Which reminds me, Glenda, I’m due for my vacation.”

“When this job’s through.”

“Yeah. You don’t have to tell me,” and I returned to my office.

Chick was on his way out.

“You see, pal,” he said. “The old grindstone tomorrow, huh?”

“Great dialogue. Stay sober,” and when he had gone, I began to clear my desk. I decided I would see Bertha. I checked my wallet to see what I was worth. I had just under a hundred dollars and eight more days to go. Maybe I would find Bertha in a less extravagant mood, but I doubted it.

As I reached for the telephone, the telephone bell beat me to it.

“Yeah? Bart Anderson, Parnell Agency,” I said.

“This is Lu Coldwell. I need to see you. It’s urgent. Do I come to you or you come to me?”

I became alert. Lu Coldwell was the field agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He had an office in the city, but he was rarely there. There was little of interest for the FBI in Paradise City. His main action was in Miami.

“I’ve a date, Lu,” I said. “How about tomorrow?”

“No way. I said it was urgent.”

“Spell it out.”

“The prints on that lighter you found that Harry Meadows sent to Washington. Up there, they are flipping. You to me or me to you?”

I didn’t hesitate. I knew if Coldwell was spotted here by Glenda, she would want to know why he was calling on me.

“Wait for me, Lu. I’ll be over in ten minutes,” and I hung up.

Now this one, I told myself, had to be played very carefully. My hippy had been identified. If Washington was flipping, this meant he was important. Again, I could hear Bertha saying, I’d look around among the rich creeps I work for and put the bite on them.

Play this one very closely to your chest, Bart, I thought, as I left the office and took the elevator down to the garage.

I found Lu Coldwell waiting for me in his small, shabby office. He was a tall, rangy man of around forty, his hair shot with grey, lantern jawed and tough. There were the odd times when he and I played a round of golf together. I made it my business to keep in with the cops and the FBI.

As we shook hands, I said, “You’ve ruined a date, but always business before pleasure.”

He waved me to a chair and sat behind his desk.

“This cigarette lighter... where did you find it? Why did you check the prints on it?” He rested his elbows on the desk and cupped his chin in his hands. He didn’t look over friendly.

While driving to his office, I had prepared my story. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him about the pirates’ island nor Nancy.

“What’s so important about it?”

“Come on, Bart!” The snap in his voice told me this wasn’t the time to fool around with him. “Where did you find the lighter?”

“A couple of nights ago. I was down on the quay. .”

“Why?”

“This sounds like an interrogation.”

“What were you doing down on the quay?”

“I had finished work and I like the quay. I know people there.”

“What are you working on?”

“A job. If you want details ask the Colonel. He’ll tell you to go to hell.”

“This is serious, Bart,” Coldwell said, softening his tone. “Okay, so you were on the quay... what time?”

“I got down there about ten o’clock. I shot the breeze with Al Barney, bought him a couple of beers, then I wandered down to the commercial harbour. I watched the ships for a while, then as I was deciding to have one more beer before going home, this character appeared out of the darkness. I was feeding a cigarette into my face and he offered me a light, with the lighter you’re worked up about.”

“Hold it! Let’s take this a step at a time. This character...” He pulled a scratch pad towards him and found a pencil. “What did he look like?”

“Medium build, stocky, heavily bearded, dark, thick uncut hair, wearing jeans and a dark T-shirt.”

Coldwell wrote this down, then opening a drawer in his desk, he took out a folder. From it, he produced a glossy mug shot and pushed it across the desk.

“That him?”

I studied the photograph. It showed a clean-shaven man of around twenty-five with close cropped black hair, lean features and small vicious eyes. The eyes gave him away. This was my hippy all right.

“Could be.” I put on my doubtful expression. “The light was bad, and he was wearing a beard and his hair was long, but... yeah, I wouldn’t want to swear to it, but could be.”

Coldwell took back the photograph, found a felt pen and gave the face a beard and long hair and pushed the photograph back to me.

I had no doubt then that this was my hippy.

“Still wouldn’t want to swear to it, but I’m pretty sure this is the guy.”

Coldwell sucked in his breath.

“So, go on.”

“I wondered who he was,” I said. “I meet all kinds on the waterfront, and I hadn’t seen him before. He seemed jumpy, and he kept looking around as if he thought he was being watched. He asked me if I knew anything about boats going to the Bahamas. I said I didn’t, but Al Barney could tell him, and he was sure to find him in the Neptune tavern. I warned him it would cost him a couple of beers. He muttered something and took off. He headed for the tavern, paused as if changing his mind, and I lost sight of him. On the ground where he had been standing was this lighter. I guess he must have had a hole in his pocket.” I gave Coldwell my cocky smile. “Being a smart shamus, I told myself this guy might be on the wanted list. From Nassau, it’s no sweat to get to Havana. Right?”

Coldwell nodded.

“So I took the lighter to Harry and asked him to check the prints. You know the rest.”

“Havana... yeah, it figures,” Coldwell said thoughtfully. He reached for the telephone, dialled, then talked to someone about boats leaving for Nassau. He scribbled, said he was obliged and hung up. “The Chrystabelle sailed for Nassau this morning. She’s an old tub that does a regular run twice a week to the islands. This guy could have smuggled himself aboard. Nice work, Bart. I’ll get his description on the wire. He might be spotted in Nassau. It’s a long shot.” He paused as he reached for the telephone. “Was he alone?”

“He was when he spoke to me. Should he have been with someone?”

“He’s supposed to be travelling with his wife. Look, Bart, I’ve got to get busy, then I’m going down to the waterfront.”

“I’ll drive you down. My car’s outside. If he didn’t get on the boat, he might still be around and I might spot him.”

Coldwell nodded and began dialling.

“I’ll wait in the car,” I said and left him.

Getting into the Maser, I did some quick thinking. Travelling with his wife. Was that the explanation of the two beds and the woman’s things I had seen in the tent?

Coldwell joined me in five minutes, and I headed for the waterfront.

“Who is this guy, Lu, and what’s all the excitement about?” I asked.

“If it is him, his name is Aldo Pofferi: an Italian terrorist. He’s wanted for three murders and his wife for two murders. The Italian police say they are the most dangerous of the Red Brigade.”

“What’s he doing here, for God’s sake?”

“Italy got too hot for him. He’s over here to raise money for the Brigade. Anyway, that’s the story. Could be. He and his wife robbed three banks in Milan. The police alerted us to look out for him. They think he reached New York about a month ago. We have been digging around, but have come up with nothing. These prints you found are our first break.”

I pulled up on the waterfront and we both got out. Detective Tom Lepski with Detective Max Jacoby came out of the crowd and joined us. Quickly, Coldwell explained how I had run into Pofferi and had been smart enough to have the fingerprints on the lighter checked.

“You’ll make a good shamus yet, Bart,” Lepski said with a grin.

I considered him the smartest detective on the force: an opinion he shared with me.

Coldwell showed him and Jacoby Pofferi’s photo: the one to which he had added the beard and long hair.

“Bart’s seen and talked to him. So suppose he goes with you, Tom, and Max and I work together? He’s damned dangerous, so watch it.”

“Yeah.” Lepski looked at me. “Carrying a gun?”

“Always do.”

“If there’s any shooting, cover me,” Lepski said. “Let’s go.”

Leaving Coldwell and Max to cover the yacht basin and the vendors stalls, Lepski and I walked along the quay towards the commercial harbour.

“Let’s talk to Al Barney,” Lepski said. “That old soak knows everything going on around here.”

We found Al Barney, sitting on a bollard, holding an empty beer can. He regarded Lepski with a disapproving stare.

“Hi, Al,” Lepski said, coming to rest before Barney.

“Evening, Mr. Lepski.” Barney’s little eyes shifted to me, then back to Lepski.

“We’re looking for a guy.” Lepski gave a description of Pofferi. “Seen him around?”

I knew this was the wrong approach. The only way to get information from Barney was to take him into the Neptune tavern and buy him unlimited beer.

Barney tossed the empty beer can into the harbour as a hint, but Lepski didn’t rise to it.

“Seen anyone like that around?” he repeated in his cop voice.

“Can’t say I have,” Barney said indifferently. “All these young punks look alike.”

“This punk’s a killer,” Lepski barked.

Barney shifted his eyebrows.

“Is that right?” He heaved himself to his feet. “I’m thirsty.”

“When aren’t you, you old soak?” Lepski snarled. “Have you seen him or haven’t you?”

“Not that I remember, Mr. Lepski,” Barney said with dignity, and waddled off towards the Neptune.

Lepski glared after him.

I had been looking towards the yacht basin. I could see Coldwell and Jacoby talking to a group of fishermen. I could also see Josh Jones, sitting on the deck of Hamel’s yacht. As Barney was walking away, I saw Jones get to his feet, jump off the yacht and disappear fast into the milling crowd.

“The man to talk to is Pete Lewinski. If he hasn’t seen Pofferi, no one has,” Lepski said. “He should be around somewhere.”

Pete Lewinski!

My heart skipped a beat. In spite of his drunkenness, I knew Pete remained a cop at heart. He wouldn’t hold back any information he thought would help the Paradise City police. If he were asked the right questions by Lepski, he would tell him of my interest in Josh Jones and the man and woman Jones had taken to his room the previous night. Then Lepski would turn on me. I had given Pete a description of my hippy and he would tell Lepski. If my hippy was Aldo Pofferi, and I was sure he was, I would be in a jam. I could get charged with concealing a criminal, or even worse, as an accessory after the fact.

“Pete’s a lush, Tom,” I said. “Let’s not waste time with him.”

“Maybe he is a lush, but he’s an ex-cop. That’s good enough for me.”

He stopped one of the waterfront’s riff-raff: a little old man, wearing a battered yachting cap and tattered, filthy ducks.

“Seen Pete around, Eddie?” Lepski asked.

“Not today, Chief. He’s usually around, but I ain’t seen him all day.”

“Do you know where he lives, Eddie?”

“Crab Yard. Number 26,” Eddie said, then hopefully, “Got a smoke to spare, Chief?”

Lepski gave him a cigarette, then nodding, he started off across the waterfront. I followed him, feeling clammy in spite of the heat.

Lepski plunged into the back alleys, dark and evil smelling, with old buildings constructed of wood and tar paper: the slum district of the waterfront. He seemed to know where he was going. I tagged along behind him.

“What a hole to live in,” he said.

I didn’t say anything. My mouth had turned dry. I kept trying to think of some lie to tell Lepski if Pete told him I had hired him to watch Jones.

“Here we are,” Lepski said, arriving at an archway that led to a small courtyard, surrounded by high, battered buildings. Tattered laundry festooned the buildings and were strung across the courtyard. Overflowing trash cans stood outside the entrances of the buildings, and the smell of decaying fish, stale frying oil, urine and rotting vegetables made me breathe through my mouth.

A group of dirty kids were kicking a ball around. When they saw Lepski, the game stopped and they all disappeared down another alley.

At the far end of the courtyard, Lepski found № 26. I had a feeling we were being watched, but looking around, could see no one.

Lepski peered through the doorway of № 26.

“What a stink!”

I looked over his shoulder into a dimly lit lobby: facing, were stairs. To the right, a passage, going away into complete darkness.

“Now, where does he hang out?” Lepski muttered. He moved forward, then taking a flashlight from his pocket, sent the beam down the passage.

At the far end of the passage was a door that stood ajar.

“Let’s try this one,” Lepski said, and started forward, then stopped. He directed the beam of the torchlight to the floor.

A red ribbon of blood came from under the door.

A gun jumped into Lepski’s hand, and he snapped off the flashlight.

“Cover me,” he muttered.

I went down on one knee, drawing my police special.

Lepski reached the door and kicked it wide open, then flattened himself against the wall.

Nothing happened. With his gun pushed forward, he peered around the doorway into the room.

Now the door was open, more light came into the passage.

“Hell!” he exclaimed, and walked into the room. “Stay where you are.”

I moved forward so I could see into the room.

Lying on the floor was an Indian boy of around fourteen years of age. He wore dirty white trousers and sandals. His T-shirt was bloodstained and blood caked his face. One look at his staring eyes told me he was dead.

“Look here,” Lepski said, and swung the beam of his flashlight to a dark corner.

Pete Lewinski, an empty bottle of Scotch clutched in his hand, sat hunched up against the wall. His face was a mess of blood. I could see the hole made by the bullet above the bridge of his thick nose.

“Find a phone and alert headquarters,” Lepski snapped. “I’ll stay here.”

As I left the building and started across the courtyard at a run, I realised with an enormous feeling of relief, that poor old Pete Lewinski wouldn’t now tell Lepski a thing.

It was just after 22.00 when I unlocked the door of my apartment, turned on the lights, closed and bolted the door, then went over to a lounging chair and sat down. I had brought beef sandwiches back with me, but I didn’t feel like eating. I had thinking to do.

Pete had told me he had a bunch of kids who would stay with Jones. It seemed obvious to me that the Indian boy, shot through the head, had been one of Pete’s kids. Could be Jones had spotted him, followed him back to Pete’s place and shot them both. I wasn’t satisfied with this thinking, but it would have to do to get on with. Anyway, this shooting told me as nothing else could that Jones and Pofferi were as dangerous as Coldwell had said they were.

The big question mark in my mind was Nancy Hamel. How did she come to get mixed up with Pofferi? I had no doubt she was helping him.

I stubbed out my cigarette and lit another. I was still puzzling, half an hour later, and still getting nowhere, when my front door bell rang.

I went into the lobby, shot back the bolt and opened the door.

Lu Coldwell advanced into the lobby, as I stood aside.

“Saw your light,” he said. “These shootings... mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing. Have a drink?”

“Why not?” He walked into my living room and sat down and stretched out his long legs. “There was such a goddamn uproar down there, I gave up asking anyone if they had seen Pofferi. I’ll get a couple of my men down there tomorrow when the dust has settled.”

“My guess is Pofferi has gone, if he was ever here,” I said as I handed him a stiff Scotch.

“I did ask around before half the cops in the city arrived. No one saw him. Maybe I’ll get the word from Nassau tomorrow.”

“It’s my bet that’s where he is.”

Coldwell drank half the Scotch, sighed, then finished the drink.

“What do you make of this shooting, Bart? I took a look. I’d say it was a professional killing. Two shots: two dead. That’s the way Pofferi kills. I’m wondering if there’s a tie up. What do you think?”

“More like someone had a grudge against Pete,” I said. “He fixed a number of drug-pushers in his time. Could be a payoff.”

“Why the boy?”

I shrugged.

“A witness, huh?”

He pulled at his nose and yawned.

“Well, it’s Lepski’s problem. Pofferi is my problem.”

I needed information the way a junkie needs a fix.

“Tell me about Pofferi’s wife? Let me get you another drink.”

“No, thanks. I’ve still work to do. His wife? Yeah, I’m interested in her too. I’ve wired Washington for a mug shot. I’ll let you see it. Getting around the way you do, you might spot her and you still might spot him.”

“Have you a file on her?”

“It’s almost nothing. She called herself Lucia Lambretti before she married Pofferi. The Italian cops have checked out her name, but it’s an alias. She emerged from nowhere about eighteen months ago, and ganged up with Pofferi. The Italian cops caught her when she and Pofferi were trying to rob a bank. He got away. She was held long enough to get her prints and a mug shot, then she escaped. Someone smuggled a gun into her cell and away she went, killing two guards.” He looked at his watch. “I’m off. See you,” and he left.

There didn’t seem much else to do except go to bed. It was now too late to see Bertha. I ate the beef sandwiches, thought about Pete Lewinski and wondered if Josh Jones had shot him.

I liked Pete, and I felt depressed, so I gave myself another drink, then went into my bedroom. The bed looked lonely. I wondered if Bertha would come over and share it with me, but decided it was too late. Still, it might be worth a try. I returned to the living room and was reaching for the telephone when there was a gentle ping on the front door bell.

The time was just after midnight. I walked to the front door, slipped on the chain and opened the door a few inches without showing myself. My highrise had had a couple of muggers causing trouble the previous month, and my neighbour was still in hospital.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“I’m Pete’s boy.” The soft accent told me he was an Indian.

I pushed the door shut, slipped off the chain and opened up.

A thin boy of around thirteen with a shock of thick black hair, dressed in dirty white drill, slid around me, and into the lobby.

I closed the door and motioned him into the living room. He stared around. His breathing came in quick gasps, and there was sweat on his face.

“What’s your name, son?” I asked, and walked over to a chair and sat down.

Still staring around, he began to chew his lower lip, then his black eyes shifted to me.

“Joey. I work for Pete.”

“You heard what happened to Pete?”

He nodded, gulped, and his dirty hands turned into fists.

“That was tough,” I said. “Sit down.”

He hesitated, then sat on the edge of a chair, facing mine.

“Why are you here Joey?”

“Tom and me are brothers.”

“Was Tom the one. .?”

He gulped again, then nodded.

“Joey, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

His face tightened, and his eyes narrowed.

“That doesn’t help,” he said, his voice husky. “Being sorry.”

“I guess not. Why have you come here, Joey?”

He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“You paid Pete twenty bucks to have Josh Jones watched, didn’t you?”

I began to feel uneasy.

“So?”

“Pete told Tom and me to watch Jones. Pete said you would pay more when we had some info. Pete was square. He said we’d split the twenty three ways.”

“Do you know who did the shooting?”

“One of the three. I don’t know which one.”

“What do you know?”

He leaned forward, his black eyes glittering.

“I know where those two are right now. Tom went to tell Pete. That’s when he got killed.”

I began to sweat.

“Have you told the cops, Joey?”

“After what they did to my dad, I don’t talk to cops.” His black eyes turned vicious.

“What happened to your dad, Joey?”

“They put him away for ten years. He has another five years to go.”

I began to relax.

“So? Where are those two right now, Joey?”

He studied me for a long moment, then he said, “What’s it worth to you, Mr. Anderson?”

I took out my limp wallet and checked its contents without letting Joey see. I thumbed out a $10 bill and held it up.

He shook his head.

“I could get killed like Tom.”

“Not if you are careful, Joey.”

“I could get killed,” he said quietly.

Reluctantly, I added another $10 bill.

“That’s it, Joey. I’m short.”

He hesitated, then reaching forward, took the two bills.

“They are at the Alameda bar.”

I gaped at him.

“That I don’t believe.”

“This morning at five o’clock, Jones and the other two left Jones’ place and went to the Alameda bar,” Joey said. “They went in by the back way, and then Jones returned to his place. My brother, Jimbo, is there now, watching.”

“You have another brother, Joey?”

“Yes. He worked for Pete too.”

“Keep watching. I’ll pay you more later. I want to know if they move, and be careful.”

He got to his feet, tucked the two bills into his hip pocket, nodded and made for the door.

“Hold it, Joey. Where can I find you?”

“Lobster Court. It’s right by Crab Court. № 2. Top floor. My brothers and I have a room.”

“How about your mother?”

“She killed herself when they took dad,” Joey said, his face wooden. “There’s only Jimbo and me now.”

“Watch out, Joey,” I said.

I saw him to the front door, then walked back to the lounging chair and sat down.

I did some thinking. Pofferi and his wife had been hiding on the pirates’ island. Nancy had visited them and had taken them ort the yacht back to the harbour. Josh Jones then had taken them to his room, and later to the Alameda bar. Why had he taken them there? It seemed to me that Jones, through Gloria Cort, had done a deal with Diaz to hide these two: a much safer hiding place than keeping them in his (Jones’) room. He had gone to Gloria because, as Hamel’s ex-wife, she knew him, crewman of the yacht. So far, this made sense, but what didn’t make sense was why a nice girl like Nancy should be helping a couple of dangerous terrorists. Had she met them in Rome? That seemed likely. Had they some hold on her?

I stubbed out my cigarette impatiently. So what should I do? I knew what I ought to do. I ought to call the police and tell them where Pofferi and his wife were hiding, but if I did that, what was in it for me? Nothing that I could see except trouble. Lepski would want to know how I had found out that the Pofferis were at the Alameda. Even if I dreamed up a convincing lie, I would still be left with nothing. No one was going to give me a reward.

It suddenly occurred to me the time was ripe to talk to Nancy Hamel. Would she be prepared to buy my silence?

I grimaced. This would have to be handled carefully.

The last thing I needed was to be charged with blackmail.

Blackmail?

I had dealt with a number of blackmailers since I had joined the Agency. I had been the means of sending them to jail. Up to this moment, I had considered blackmail to be the lowest form of crime.

But was this blackmail? All I was going to do was to have a confidential talk with Nancy Hamel. I would tell her I knew of her connection with Pofferi and I knew where he and his wife were hiding. I would explain that a shamus didn’t make much of a living. I would give her my sincere smile. Of course if we could come to some financial arrangement, then I would forget the whole thing and everyone would be happy. It was, of course, up to her to decide.

Was that blackmail?

A business arrangement, yes. Blackmail, no.

I am pretty smart at kidding people, but I am in a class of my own when I begin to kid myself.