A Can of Worms

Chapter four

The following morning, around 09.00, I walked into Glenda’s office to find her sorting the mail.

“Hi, there,” I said, placing my hands on her desk and leaning over her. “How’s the busy bee this sunny day?”

She didn’t pause in her reading.

“What do you want? You should be on the job.”

“Never off it, gorgeous. Those poison pen letters. I need them. I’ve an idea I can trace the paper. Harry has given me a clue.”

“Help yourself.” She waved to a filing cabinet and went on reading.

“Business brisk? Lots of new suckers?” I asked as I found the two letters. Getting no reply, I put the letters in my wallet and breezed out of the office.

Taking the elevator down to the garage, I drove the Maser to the Country Club. I parked, then settled in a lounging chair, with a copy of Newsweek, to wait.

I had been up early and had made two reports, plus carbon copies. I now felt ready to have a confidential chat with Nancy Hamel. As I sat in the lounge, I thought about her. I recalled the impression she had made on me, both from her photograph and from seeing her. I was sure as I could be that I would have no trouble with her if I handled her right, and I intended to handle her right.

Around 10.30, she came into the lounge, carrying a tennis racket, and dressed for tennis. She went over to the Club’s porter, an ageing black with white, frizzy hair, who beamed at her.

“Has Mrs. Highbee come yet, Johnson?” she asked.

I was near enough to hear her.

“She’s down on the courts, Mrs. Hamel.”

Nancy smiled, nodded and walked across the lobby, heading for the tennis courts. I watched her go. Her hip movement was nice.

After waiting for some fifteen minutes, I went out onto the terrace and saw her playing with Penny Highbee. Lunchtime, I told myself, would be right to talk to her, so I went down to the swimming pool, changed and swam. The pool was crowded with the big, the fat, the slim and the dolly birds.

After an hour, I dried off, changed and wandered back to the tennis courts. Nancy and Penny were still playing.

I found a chair under a sun umbrella and sat down. A waiter slid up. I ordered a Scotch and coke. He brought the drink, I signed, tipped and he went away.

A voice said, “It’s Mr. Anderson, I believe?”

I looked up to find Mel Palmer, Hamel’s agent, wearing an immaculate off-white tropical suit, standing before me.

I gave him my wide, friendly smile, but I wasn’t smiling beneath the surface. He was the last person I needed to see.

“Hi, there, Mr. Palmer.” I got to my feet. “Have a drink?”

He lowered his bulk into a chair as a waiter came swiftly to his side. He ordered a pink gin, then sat back, his sunglasses aimed in my direction.

“I see you are working.” He looked in the direction of the tennis courts, then back to me.

“Pretty dull work,” I said.

The waiter put Palmer’s drink on the table and Palmer signed. When the waiter had gone, he took a sip, wiped his lips with a silk handkerchief and smiled at me.

“Dull work? This is, of course, good news. Have you anything to report so far?”

“The subject is giving no cause for worry, sir. I have been watching her for the past four days, and there is nothing to report.”

His smile broadened.

“Just as I thought. I have tried to convince Mr. Hamel he is wasting his money, but he has a stubborn nature.”

“We have checked on Waldo Carmichael, Mr. Palmer. He does not exist,” I said.

Palmer nodded.

“I am not surprised. We are, of course, dealing with a sick crank. I have told Mr. Hamel this again and again, but he refuses to be convinced. It is a very worrying situation.”

Worrying for you, Fatso, I thought. You’re seeing all that nice commission disappearing into smoke.

“At the end of the week, I will be writing a full report on Mrs. Hamel’s activities. This report will show that she is leading a blameless, rather dull, life. If my report doesn’t convince Mr. Hamel, then nothing will.”

“Excellent.” Palmer finished his drink, then got to his feet. “I must run along. I can expect your report then at the end of the week?”

“You can rely on it, sir.” I got to my feet and shook his hand. “I assure you there is nothing to worry about.”

I watched him bounce across the terrace and move out of sight. Then I looked over at the tennis courts. Nancy and Penny had finished playing and were putting on their sweaters. I waited. Talking together, the two women came towards me.

“Have a drink, Penny?” Nancy said as they were a few yards from me.

“Can’t stop, honey. I’m late as it is. See you tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

Penny hurried away, and Nancy went over to a distant table and sat down. A waiter reached her, took her order and made for the bar.

This seemed to me to be the right time. I waited until the waiter had brought a Tom Collins which he set on the table, waited until Nancy had signed, and waited until the waiter moved away. Then I walked up to her and gave her my respectful smile.

“Mrs. Hamel. I am Bart Anderson. I have just been talking to Mel Palmer who is, as you know, your husband’s agent.”

She leaned back in her chair and regarded me. Her cool, dark eyes showed interest, mixed with surprise.

“You know Mr. Palmer?”

“Sure.” I gave her my tentative smile. “You play a fine game of tennis, Mrs. Hamel. I was watching.”

“Do you play?”

“Well, not in your class. That backhand of yours really rips them in.”

I could see from her slight change of expression, she had lost interest in me. I was sure I wouldn’t be invited to sit down, so I sat down. I believe positive action gets the business.

She was startled to find me sitting at her side, but, after a very brief moment, when she had stiffened, she relaxed, but her eyes were cool and her expression unfriendly.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Mrs. Hamel,” I said in my most gentle voice. “I am in a quandary.”

As she regarded me, she stiffened.

“I am sorry Mr.... Mr....”

“Bart Anderson.”

“Mr. Anderson, I don’t know you, and I am not interested in any quandary you may be in. I can’t imagine why you should want to talk to me. I have no inclination to talk to you.”

I pasted on my patient smile. Maybe she wasn’t going to be that easy to handle.

“You have a point, Mrs. Hamel. If I hadn’t your interests at heart, I would now fold my tent and creep away, but may I suggest you give me a hearing?”

“If you don’t leave me immediately, I will call a waiter!” The snap in her voice warned me she meant just what she was saying.

So I had to give it to her the hard way. I took out my business card and placed it on the table so she could read it.

“Your husband has hired me to watch you, Mrs. Hamel.”

Man! Did that hit her where she lived! The colour went out of her face, her eyes receded into her face, and she shrivelled. For a long moment, she remained motionless, staring at the card, then I saw a little shiver run through her.

I gave her time. I didn’t sit, gloating. I looked away at a dizzy dish who was crossing the terrace to the pool. She was long legged, high breasted and blonde: the kind of babe I like to bed with when my wallet is stuffed with the green. I watched her swing her tail, and I wasn’t the only one watching. The fat, old finks with white hair on their chests and knotted veins in their spindly legs were also watching.

When the dish had tail-wagged herself out of sight, I turned to look at Nancy.

She still sat motionless, staring down at my business card.

“To understand the situation,” I said, keeping my voice low and gentle, “I think you should read these two letters your husband has received. They are the reason why he has hired me to watch you.”

She looked up then. Her eyes were like holes in a white sheet.

I took the two letters from my wallet, took them from their envelopes and placed them on the table.

She picked them up. The blue tinted paper rustled in her trembling fingers. I lit a cigarette and waited. I had all the time in the world. A setup like this should never be hurried. I didn’t watch her, but shifted my eyes to an elderly couple who had sat down, four tables away. The woman, nudging sixty, was a dyed blonde. She had crushed her fat into a bikini. The man was dyed black. He had breasts like a woman, and body hair a chimp might envy.

People! I thought. The Oldies! They hang on with grim tenacity. The graveyard is around the corner, but they stay in the ring, feebly punching.

Nancy laid the letters back on the table.

“My husband wrote those letters,” she said. “Waldo Carmichael is the name of his leading character in the book he is now writing.”

I gaped at her. For a long moment, I sat as still as she was sitting. Then I pulled myself together.

“Mrs. Hamel... there must be some mistake.”

“There is no mistake. My husband uses this notepaper. I recognize the typing. He wrote these letters.”

“But why?”

She looked directly at me.

“He wanted an excuse to hire a detective.”

I got back on even keel. He wanted an excuse to hire a detective. My brain raced. Could be, but why have his wife watched?

I picked up the letters, folded them and put them back in my wallet, my brain still racing. I was aware she was now watching me. I kept my expression deadpan.

“There are complications, Mrs. Hamel,” I said finally. “As I told you, I am in a quandary. I have been watching you for the past four days. I am supposed to turn in a report, covering your movements at the end of the week.”

Still very tense, she looked straight at me.

“What complications?” she asked, her voice husky. “Send in your report. It can contain nothing that would upset my husband,” and she made a move to get up.

“Don’t go, Mrs. Hamel,” I said. “Two days ago, I followed you in your yacht in a chopper to the pirates’ islands.”

She closed her eyes and her hands turned into fists.

“So you see, Mrs. Hamel, I am in a quandary,” I went on, watching her. “I came across Aldo Pofferi, a wanted murderer, on the island. You and your crewman, Jones, got Pofferi and his wife off the island. I even know where they are hiding. If I turned in a report covering these facts, don’t you think your husband would be upset?”

She sat still, looking down at her clenched fists. She sat like that for several minutes while I waited. I could afford to give her plenty of time to think what to do. I knew I had her over a barrel. This wasn’t the moment to put on pressure. I wanted her to come to the right decision without a nudge from me.

Finally, she said, “Are you sending in this report?”

“That’s just it, Mrs. Hamel. That’s why I am in a quandary. Look at it from my angle.” I paused to give her my friendly, understanding smile. “Mr. Hamel hires me or rather, he hires the Agency I work for. It is going to cost him money. I’m just one of twenty detectives paid by the Agency, and paid badly. Although the Agency regards Mr. Hamel as their client, there is no need for me to regard him as my client. Frankly, Mrs. Hamel, I don’t approve of husbands who distrust their wives. Unfortunately for me, because I have to earn a living, I have to do what I am told by my Agency.” I paused to put on my worried, depressed expression. “So now, perhaps, you see my quandary.”

She looked away from me.

“I think so,” she said. “Go on.”

“Well, that’s really it, Mrs. Hamel. I have two reports: either of them I could give Mr. Hamel. The first one will satisfy him that he has started something he should never have even contemplated.”

I took the two reports from my wallet and handed her the first one which stated that I had followed her for four days and had found she was leading a blameless existence. She read it.

“And the other one?”

I gave it to her. It was in detail: the pirates’ island, Aldo Pofferi, and who he was. Josh Jones. The Alameda bar.

This time I watched her. As she read, her face became whiter, and her hands were shaking when she put the report down on the table.

“What am I to do, Mrs. Hamel?” I asked. “You must understand that I should give Mr. Hamel this second report. If I don’t, I could lose my job, and frankly, I can’t afford to lose my job. I would like to be helpful. As I’ve said, I don’t approve of husbands distrusting their wives. But there it is. . my quandary.”

She sat still, again staring down at her hands. I waited, but as she said nothing, I decided to help her.

“Of course, if you hired me to look after your interests, Mrs. Hamel, I would be relieved of my quandary. I would no longer be working for Mr. Hamel. I could be working for you. I would then send in the first report without any problems... if I were working for you.”

She moved, then looked up from her hands, but not at me.

“I understand,” she said. “Would you work for me?”

Nearly home, I told myself. Like any sale, the payoff hinged on the price. We hadn’t got that far, but we were nearing it.

“I would be happy to, Mrs. Hamel.” I even surprised myself how sincere I sounded.

“What would your services entail?” She was now looking steadily at me. The cold, contemptuous expression in her eyes slightly dented my ego.

“Well, of course, Mr. Hamel would receive the first, negative report and not the second damaging report,” I said. “Then I would, if Mr. Hamel was still not satisfied, give him more negative reports until he was satisfied.”

She waited. I waited. I had to hitch my smile into place.

“That’s it, Mrs. Hamel,” I said finally, because the silence and the way she was looking at me began to nibble at my nerves.

“Naturally, you would expect to be paid to work for me,” she said.

Well, here it was: the payoff.

“This would be a business transaction, Mrs. Hamel. Yes, I would expect to be paid. I have to live. If it ever got out that I had turned in a false report, I would be in trouble.” I hitched up the smile. “I have a licence. Frankly, that’s about all I do have. To work for you, Mrs. Hamel, would be putting my licence on the line. If I lost that, I would be out in the cold, cold world. That is, no other agency would employ me. So...I would be taking a considerable risk if I worked for you.”

“What would I have to pay?” Her voice was low and her eyes narrowed. “Although my husband is wealthy, I have very little personal money.”

I put my smile to bed and gave her, instead, my cop stare.

“Mrs. Hamel, by associating with Italian terrorists, wanted for at least five murders, you have placed yourself in jeopardy. You should have considered the consequences before you opted to give them sanctuary. Why you did this is not my business. You could be arrested and charged with accessory to murder. By helping you, I could also be charged as an accessory. I am offering my help. The payoff is one hundred thousand dollars.”

She reared back as if I had struck her.

“One hundred thousand dollars!” Her voice quivered. “I couldn’t possibly pay such a sum!”

“Those are my terms, Mrs. Hamel. It is up to you to find the money,” I said, still giving her my cop stare. “A woman married to a man as rich as Russ Hamel should be able to raise one hundred thousand dollars. Don’t tell me your husband hasn’t given you expensive presents. Look around: hock something. You have until the end of the week. On Saturday morning, I am sending my report to Mr. Palmer. It is up to you if the report is negative or not. Meet me here this time on Friday with the money. If you are not here, Mr. Palmer gets the second report on Saturday morning.” I got to my feet, then paused. “Oh, one other thing, Mrs. Hamel. Don’t go running to Pofferi. He is a killer. I’m not scared of him, but I have been in the racket long enough to take precautions. A copy of the second report is with my attorney. If anything happens to me, the cops will get it. I assure you, ten years in jail isn’t worth one hundred thousand dollars.”

I relaxed my cop stare and gave her my bright smile.

She sat motionless, staring at me, like a wax figure.

I left her, feeling pretty sure she would find the money.

One hundred thousand dollars!

Man!

The waterfront was teaming with life. Fishing boats, loaded with crab and lobster and assorted fish, were returning to the harbour. Tourists were standing around, gaping, with their cameras. Al Barney was chatting up an elderly rubbernecker, hoping for free beer.

I picked my way through the crowd, heading for Crab Court. As I moved off the waterfront and into a dark alley, I ran into detective Tom Lepski.

“Hi, Bart!”

I put on the brakes and gave him a smile.

“Hi, Tom! How’s the thing?”

He blew out his cheeks.

“Still digging. I keep asking myself who would want to knock off Pete and a boy of fourteen.”

“Like I told Lu. A grudge killing and the boy was unlucky.”

“Could be. What are you doing here?”

“Digging.” I began to move around him. “See you, Tom,” and started on my way.

Lepski’s hand dropped on my arm.

“Coldwell seems sure Pofferi isn’t here, but I still like him for these shootings, so keep your eyes open.”

I jerked my arm loose.

“If I see him you’ll be the first to know,” and I went on down the alley. Before turning under the arch that led to Crab Court, I paused to look back. There was no sign of Lepski, so I continued on, through another archway into a courtyard that smelt of decay. Kids were kicking a ball around. They stopped when they saw me, suspicion in their dark eyes. I kept on and into another courtyard. As soon as I moved on, they resumed their game.

There was a weather-beaten sign that read: Lobster Court. Across the squalid courtyard, I found № 2. I climbed creaking stairs. The building stank. The banister rails were ready to fall apart. Each step of the stairs threatened to give under my weight. I kept climbing. Sounds came to me: a T.V. set in full blast: a woman screaming abuse: a child crying: a dog barking. Finally, I reached the top floor. The roof made the top floor into a narrow attic. Ahead of me was a door. The heat up there was enough to fry an egg. Sweat began to run down my face. I rapped on the door and waited, having trouble in breathing. There was a delay, so I knuckled the door again. It opened.

Joey stared at me. His dark little face lit up with a grin.

“Hi, Joey!” I said. “Man! Is it hot up here!”

He stood aside and I walked into a small room with a skylight; three beds, a table, three chairs and a battered radio. Although the skylight was wide open, the heat in the room was like a furnace.

“Any news for me, Joey?” I asked, getting near the open skylight.

“Jimbo is watching, Mr. Anderson. They are still there.”

“Sure?”

He nodded.

“They are still there.”

“They could be moving.” I took out my depleted wallet and gave him another $10. “Keep close watch, Joey. If they move, I want to know where to.”

He nodded as he took the bill.

“Okay, Mr. Anderson. I’ll get over there right away and tell Jimbo.”

“Watch out, Joey.”

He lost his smile and a vicious look came into his eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Anderson. They killed Tommy, but they won’t kill Jimbo or me.”

“All the same, Joey, watch out.”

I left him and walked along the waterfront to where I had parked the Maser. Getting in, I drove along Ocean Promenade. It was time for lunch. I stopped off at a seafood restaurant where I ate from time to time.

The Vietnamese owner welcomed me and took me to a corner table. There were a few tourists, already eating, but it was early. The rush would begin later. I ordered the day’s special, lit a cigarette and considered my morning’s work.

Well, Bart, baby, I thought, you’ve certainly laid it on the line.

One hundred thousand dollars!

I began to think what I would do when Nancy Hamel handed over the loot. I felt pretty sure that somehow, she would find the money.

Once she paid up, I would give the Colonel the negative report. He would give it to Palmer who would give it to Hamel who, unless he needed his head examined would call off the surveillance. The Colonel would send in his account and I would be free to go off on my overdue vacation With one hundred thousand dollars in my sack, I would take off into the blue and Paradise City would see — the last of me. With all that green stuff, I could go where I fancied. I had always wanted to charter a yacht and cruise in style around the Bahamas and the other islands. I decided I would take Bertha along for company.

I ate the special while I continued to dream. Man! Would I have a ball!

Then an unpleasant thought dropped into my mind. Suppose Nancy didn’t come up with the money? Suppose she was stupid enough or smart enough to tell me to go screw myself?

What then?

I pushed aside my plate and lit a cigarette. This was a decidedly unpleasant thought, but I have always believed in looking at both sides of the coin. So, suppose Nancy didn’t produce the money?

Considering this depressing thought, it then dawned on me that I was in no position to put pressure on her. I was in as big a jam as she was. She was concealing two wanted killers, and, by keeping my mouth shut, so was I! If she either couldn’t raise the money or decided to call my bluff, I couldn’t threaten her with the cops. She would tell them I had tried to squeeze her for one hundred thousand dollars. Cops were always on the lookout for blackmailing private eyes. No matter how fast I talked, they would take me in and give me the treatment. Their first question would be to ask why I hadn’t blown the whistle on Pofferi as soon as I had known where his hideout was. I knew I couldn’t talk myself out of that one.

I began to sweat.

Man! I thought, this is beginning to look rough. Then I forced myself to relax. Take it easy, baby, I said to myself. It’s not the end of the road. You can’t expect to pick up one hundred thousand dollars without a little sweat. So be optimistic. It’s a 60–40 bet she won’t realize she is in as big a jam as I am. She could find the money, but if she didn’t, if she called my bluff, then that would be that. I would give the Colonel the negative report and that yak of Bertha’s about putting the bite on the rich creeps would be yet another pipe dream.

The chartered yacht and Bertha, popping champagne corks while we sailed in the sun, began to look out of focus. Still, on Friday, I might be lucky. Nancy might be waiting to hand over the loot.

I then turned my mind to Russ Hamel and the poison pen letters. This was a puzzle that nagged me.

I recalled what Nancy had said: My husband wrote those letters. Waldo Carmichael is the name of his leading character in the book he is now writing.

She had said that with such conviction, I believed her. So why should a rich, famous author write poison pen letters to himself?

Nancy’s explanation was that he needed an excuse to hire a private detective.

I thought about this. Maybe this was the answer. I had no idea how an author created a plot, but it seemed possible that these poison pen letters were part of the plot of his new book and he was testing for reactions. In his position as a famous author, he wouldn’t want to be bothered to approach an investigating agency, but by writing those letters, he could get his agent, Mel Palmer, to do it. This seemed to me to be a cockeyed method of obtaining authentic material, but Hamel was rich enough to act on a whim, and this could be the explanation of the letters.

Needing authentic details of how an agency set about wife-watching, he had used his wife as a stooge, believing she was leading a blameless life. Unwittingly, he had opened a real can of worms.

For the first time since I had been with the Parnell Agency, I found I had no work to do.

There was no point in going to the Country Club to check on Nancy. Whatever she did now was no concern of mine. I had the afternoon before me, then I would check in at the office, making out I had been on the job with still nothing to report.

I was about to make plans how to spend the afternoon, when I remembered, scattered around this lush city, were nineteen of Parnell’s operators, all working for a living. It wouldn’t do for one of them to spot me relaxing. Chick and I being Parnell’s top operators, weren’t all that popular with the other operators. There was always one who might be tempted to put in the knife.

So, reluctantly, I drove to the Country Club and looked around. There was no sign of Nancy. It was just as well that I made the effort to appear to be working for I saw, sitting on the terrace, Larry Fraser, one of Parnell’s dim operators who liked me like you like a hole in the head.

He stared at me blankly as if he didn’t know me and then looked away. I took that as a hint he didn’t want to exchange words, so I went down to the swimming pool. He was probably on yet another wife-watching stint.

As soon as I lost sight of him, I walked by the pool, made sure Nancy wasn’t around, then took the back way to my car. At least, Larry, if asked, could say I had been on the job.

I drove down to the waterfront. Leaving the car, I walked along to where Hamel’s yacht was berthed, but there was no sign of it.

Spotting Al Barney, sitting on his bollard, I went over to him.

“Too early for a beer, Al?”

He gave me his shark-like smile.

“When is it too early, Mr. Anderson?”

We went together to the Neptune and Sam brought two beers.

“Has Mrs. Hamel gone off in her boat, Al?” I asked as we settled.

He drank deep and long, slapped down the glass, looked at Sam, who rushed over a refill.

“She went off an hour ago,” Barney said.

“With Jones?”

He nodded.

“No one else?”

He shook his head, drank and set the glass down gently.

“About Pete,” I said. “Lepski didn’t get anything out of you, did he?”

Barney scowled.

“There’s a stupid, ambitious cop,” he said with scorn. “Don’t even talk to me about him.”

“Any ideas about what happened to Pete?”

“Well, Mr. Anderson, I could make suggestions. I liked Pete. Of course, he drank too much.” Barney paused to look virtuous. “The trouble with him was he stuck his nose into other people’s business, and talked.”

“Whose business, Al?”

Barney’s bloated, fat face became expressionless.

“There’s not much that goes on around here, Mr. Anderson, that I don’t know about, but I know when to flap with my mouth and when to keep it shut.” He finished the beer. I signalled to Sam who came over with yet another refill.

Barney smiled, nodded his thanks to me, then lowering his voice, he said, “Between you and me, Mr. Anderson, Pete got too interested in Alphonso Diaz, and let me tell you, Diaz is a very tough hombre.”

“What interest, Al?”

Barney’s face again became expressionless.

“I wouldn’t know.”

I had gone through this routine with Barney a number of times in the past. Beer produced information, but food unlocked the gates.

“You look hungry, Al,” I said. “How about a hamburger?”

Barney beamed.

“Yeah. A hamburger would sit fine right now,” and he gave a signal to Sam.

There was a brief delay, then Sam came over with a mountain of hamburgers, soggy, greasy and covered with raw onion rings. He placed the plate before Barney and handed him a knife.

I waited until Barney had munched through the first hamburger, then tried again.

“I’m interested in Diaz,” I said. “Any little tip, Al, will be gratefully received.”

“Keep away from him, Mr. Anderson. You are a good friend of mine. I wouldn’t like anything to happen to you, so keep well away from him,” Barney said, his mouth full.

“Why?”

“That’s it, Mr. Anderson. Just keep well away from him.” The flat note in his voice told me I’d get no further information from him.

I tried another approach.

“Josh Jones,” I said. “Give me something about him, Al.”

“You keep away from him too, Mr. Anderson. He’s a no-good nigger.”

“How about some of those chili sausages you like so much, Al?”

He eyed me.

“You know my weakness, Mr. Anderson,” and he signalled to Sam who brought over a plate of small sausages, cooked in chili sauce. Once I had been dopey enough to try one: it had practically blown the top of my head off.

Smiling, Barney began feeding these lethal objects into his mouth. After he had eaten five of them, his eyes began to water, and he paused to take a long drink of beer.

“You still interested in Jones, Mr. Anderson?” he asked, and thumped his chest with his clenched fist.

“Yes.”

He nodded.

“I’ll tell you something.” He lowered his voice. “He and the first Mrs. Hamel, Gloria Cort, had it off together. That was before she hooked up with Diaz. From what I hear, Jones and she are still pretty close.”

“You mean while she was married to Hamel, she and Jones...”

“He’s the crewman. It happens.”

“Yes.” I watched him start on the sausages again, then asked, “Do you think the second Mrs. Hamel is fascinated with Jones?”

Barney frowned.

“No, sir. Not that lady... she’s nice. Nothing like that about her. I would have heard. I keep my ear to the ground.”

I looked at my watch. It was nearing 18.00.

“I’ll move along, Al. See you.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Anderson, and thanks for the food.” He put a grimy, fat hand on my sleeve. “Remember what I’ve said: keep clear of Diaz and Jones.”

I went out onto the waterfront. I could see the Hamel yacht coming into the harbour. Nancy was in the bows. Jones was steering the yacht in. I mixed with the crowd and headed with long strides towards the Maser. I didn’t want Nancy to see me.

Getting back to the office, I put my head around Gloria’s door.

“The Colonel wants you,” she said crisply. Go on in.

“Trouble, baby?” I asked.

“Consult your conscience. Go on in.”

“My pal,” I said, knocked on Parnell’s door and walked in.

Parnell was at his desk, going through a folder.

“The Hamel case,” he said. “What’s new?”

“Nothing, sir. A complete blank. I talked to Mr. Palmer this morning and told him I had nothing to report. He now wants a full report on my work and he is going to persuade Hamel to drop the investigation.”

“You are quite sure Mrs. Hamel hasn’t been misbehaving herself and hasn’t been associating with other men?” Parnell asked, his steel blue eyes probing.

“As far as I can tell, sir, she has been behaving herself, and has not been associating with other men. I have not been able to follow her this afternoon when she took off in the yacht, but when I did in the chopper, she just fished. I am satisfied that Hamel is getting crank letters to upset his work, and that’s all there is to it.”

Parnell nodded.

“Let me have your report, and I’ll send it to Palmer. Gloria tells me you are due for your vacation.”

“Yes sir.”

“Okay. Start tomorrow. Have a good time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I returned to my office, copied out the first report I had shown Nancy, took the second, damaging report from my wallet and tore it into small pieces.

I went along to Gloria’s office and handed over the report.

“I start my vacation as from now, baby,” I said. “If you tell me to have a good time, I’ll burst into tears.”

“Come the day,” Gloria said as she began to read my report.

I left her and went along to Edward’s office. There I collected my month’s salary, plus vacation money. I was rich again!

Back in my office, I found Chick waiting. As soon as I entered, he held out his hand. I returned the $50 he had lent me.

“Where are you going?” he asked as he stowed the bill away.

“I can’t afford to go anywhere. I’ll chat up the dolly birds and generally relax,” I said. “Think of me. If I see you, slogging at work, I’ll buy you a drink.”

Chick grinned.

“After borrowing the dough from me.” He got to his feet. “I guess I’ll get home. Have a ball, Bart, but don’t spend all your money.”

“Just some of it,” I said, and sitting down at my desk, I reached into the drawer for the Scotch. “A drink before you go?”

“Gotta date,” Chick said. He started for the door, then paused. “I was forgetting. Got something for you. Came in about a couple of hours ago from the FBI.” He produced a sealed envelope. “What’s Coldwell writing to you about?”

I took the envelope.

“Vacation plans,” I said. “He promised to send me the dope on renting a boat.”

Chick shrugged.

“Don’t get drowned,” then he left.

I regarded the envelope, puzzled, then I opened it. There was a brief note and a mug shot of a woman. The note ran: I promised to let you have this photo of Aldo Pofferi’s wife, Lucia Pofferi. Keep an eye out for her. Lu.

I picked up the mug shot and looked at it. It showed a blonde woman of around twenty-four or five who stared at me from the photograph with hard, vicious eyes.

I felt an explosive shock run through me. If this woman hadn’t been blonde, I would have sworn she was Nancy Hamel! With unsteady fingers, I picked up a felt pen and inked the hair black. Again I stared at the mug shot.

I had no doubt now.

This woman, wanted on two murder charges and married to one of the most dangerous Italian terrorists was Nancy Hamel!