A Can of Worms

Chapter five

Fanny Battley, the night clerk in charge of The Paradise City Herald’s morgue, looked up as I entered the big room, lined with folios containing the back editions of the newspaper, and steel cabinets containing a complete record of all the photographs that had appeared in the paper since its inception.

The Parnell operators often made use of the facilities of the morgue, and we were all well known to Fanny, a lively coloured girl, good at her job and always helpful.

“Hi, Bart! Don’t tell me you’re still working?” she said with a wide smile of welcome.

“Hi, Fan!” I came to rest at her desk. “I’m going on vacation tomorrow. I have one little job to clear up.”

“Lucky you! Where are you going?”

“Who wants to go anywhere but here? Look, honey, I need a little help. I want to know when and who to and where Russ Hamel, the author, married.”

“No problem. Sit down.” She waved to a desk. “I’ll bring you what we’ve got.”

That was the big thing about Fanny. She never asked questions.

I sat down, lit a cigarette and waited. She went nimbly through a big card index, then crossed over to one of the folios, dragged it out and dumped it on my desk.

“Have you any photographs of the happy pair?” I asked.

She produced an envelope from one of the steel cabinets and put it on the desk.

“That’s all we have, Bart.”

“Fine, Fan, and thanks.”

She went back to her desk and resumed card indexing.

I looked at the photographs. Russ Hamel turned out to be a square faced, heavily built man handsome with greying hair, and with that arrogant look of a rich man who is sure of his success. I concentrated on Nancy’s photographs. In all of them, she wore dark, goggle sunglasses that successfully screened her face. Anyone seeing her on the streets wouldn’t have known her by these photographs.

I read through the wedding account Interviewed, Hamel said he had met Nancy in Rome. There had been a whirlwind courtship, and they had married two months after their first meeting. Hamel said Nancy was too shy to comment, and he didn’t want her bothered.

I paused to check dates, and worked out that Hamel had me her eight months ago. I then remembered Coldwell had said she had begun criminal operations with Pofferi eighteen months ago. It occurred to me with feeling of shock, that she was married to Aldo Pofferi when he had married Hamel! Had she married Hamel to get out of Italy after her arrest and murderous escape? I liked this idea. Who would suspect the wife of Russ Hamel to be a wanted terrorist?

Satisfied there was nothing else in the article of any use to me, I carried the folio back to its shelf.

“Thanks Fan.” I gave her the envelope containing the photographs. “That about buttons it up. See you around,” and blowing her a kiss, I left her.

I sat in the Maser and considered my next move. Tomorrow, at midday, I was to meet Nancy at the Country Club. With my usual optimism I thought there was a slim chance of her producing the money but if she didn’t I was now in a very good position to put on the pressure. To tell her I could now prove she was Lucia Pofferi would surely produce the green.

This new information needed quiet and careful thought. I decided to return home, put my feet up and exercise my brain. I set the car in motion, and on the way, I stopped at a sandwich bar and bought a pack of sandwiches.

As I was turning onto the street, leading to my highrise, a small figure darted out of the shadows, frantically waving.

I stood on the brake pedal and the Maser squealed to a stop.

Joey appeared at my window.

“Don’t go home, Mr. Anderson,” he said urgently. “They are waiting for you.”

Behind me, a car hooted. Joey ran around the Maser, opened the passenger’s door and scrambled in beside me. I eased the car to the kerb.

“Gone to sleep, birdbrain?” the driver in the car behind me bawled, and drove on.

“What is it, Joey?” I asked.

“Diaz and Jones,” Joey said breathlessly. “I followed them. They went to your place. I saw a light flash on and off in your apartment. They are still there.”

I felt a prickly sensation run up my spine. Nancy had blown the whistle on me! She had gone to Diaz and told him I was twisting her arm! I remembered Al Barney’s warning to keep clear of Diaz and Jones. I broke out into a cold sweat.

Joey nudged me.

“I’m looking after you, Mr. Anderson,” he said.

“You can say that again, Joey. Stay still for a moment. I want to think.”

“I’m hungry, Mr. Anderson.”

I saw he had found the pack of sandwiches and was fondling it.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Just relax with the mouth.”

While he was munching, I considered what I was to do. I thought of Pete who had got too close to Diaz and had been ruthlessly wiped out. I remembered I had told Nancy that I had given a statement to my lawyer that would not only incriminate her, but give away Pofferi’s hiding place. Maybe Diaz thought I was bluffing and had moved into action. He would be right that I had been bluffing, so now I had to make the bluff stick. I would have to write a complete statement, including the fact that I knew Nancy was Pofferi’s wife. I would then show the statement to Diaz plus a receipt from my lawyer that the original statement was in his hands. In this way, and only this way, would I be able to draw Diaz’s teeth.

After further thought, I decided to go to my office and use my typewriter there. I was not, repeat not, returning to my apartment. The agency’s night guard would let me in and I could park the Maser in the underground garage, out of sight.

“Okay, Joey,” I said. “You get back and watch. When they leave, call me.”

I gave him my business card.

With his mouth full, he nodded, staring hard at me with his bright, little eyes. I took the hint and gave him a $20 bill. He grinned, slid out of the car and was away.

Jackson, the Agency’s night guard, opened the door after I had rung a couple of times.

“Have you forgotten something, Mr. Anderson,” he asked as I stepped around him and into the reception lobby.

“Clearing my desk,” I said. “I’m going on vacation tomorrow.”

“Have a good time, Mr. Anderson.”

I hope so, I thought. Man! I hope so!

It took me close on two hours to get my statement right, and I made three copies. I then went along to the typist pool and ran off three photocopies of the mug shots of Pofferi and Nancy, Coldwell had given me.

Returning to my office, I pinned the mug shots to the copies of the statement, then put them in separate envelopes On each envelope, I typed: To be handed to Chief of Police Terrell in the event of my death or if I go missing.

I then found a larger envelope and put the envelope containing the top copy of my statement, plus the original mug shots into the larger envelope. I addressed the envelope to Howard Selby, a smart attorney with whom the Agency often did business and who was a good friend of mine. I then wrote him a letter, telling him I was on to a dangerous gang and was collecting evidence against them. I wanted him to keep the enclosed envelope (unopened) until I had completed my case. I had been threatened, so I was taking out insurance by giving him half the evidence. I concluded by saying if he heard of my death or that I had gone missing, he was to give the envelope to Chief of Police Terrell. I wanted a letter from him stating these facts and this letter must reach me at my home address by special messenger before midday tomorrow.

Selby had offices on the fifth floor of the Trueman building. I took the elevator down and put the letter in his mailbox, then returned to my office.

The nightguard watched these manoeuvres with a blank stare, but he kept from asking questions.

I sat again behind my desk and managed to grin. At least, I was nearly safe. I put the second envelope between the pages of Robertson’s Law Index and the book into my Scotch bottle drawer. Seeing there was still some Scotch left, I made myself a drink. The third envelope I put in my wallet.

As I sipped my drink, my thoughts turned once again to owning one hundred thousand dollars. Would Nancy be at the Country Club tomorrow at midday? I rather doubted it. She had gone to Diaz for help. His immediate reaction was to go to my apartment and wait for me. Was he waiting with a gun or waiting to do a deal?

I finished my drink and was considering pouring another when my telephone came alive.

Joey said, “They left five minutes ago, Mr. Anderson, and are heading back to the Alameda.”

“Thanks, Joey. Get some sleep. How’s Jimbo?”

“He’s watching the Alameda, Mr. Anderson.”

“Keep watching, Joey. If you have news, call me at my apartment.”

“Yes Mr. Anderson,” and he rang off.

I now needed some sleep. I said goodnight to the night guard, went down to the garage and drove home.

Not a bad day’s work, I thought, as I let myself into my apartment. Tomorrow would be the crunch.

Looking around, I found nothing had been disturbed. There was some cigar ash on the carpet, but otherwise I wouldn’t have known Diaz and Jones had been here.

Tomorrow! I had already decided what I would do. I was very confident. I shot the bolt on the front door and headed for my bedroom.

I could almost hear the rustle of the green stuff: my idea of sweet music.

I came awake with a start. Someone was ringing on my front door bell. Cursing, I levered myself out of bed and looked blearily at my watch. The time was 10.35.

I called through the door: “Who is it?”

“From Mr. Selby,” a girl’s voice said.

I opened up and accepted an envelope from one of Selby’s clerks. She was the mousey type who expected to be raped at any moment. She gave me a scared stare and retreated.

I opened the envelope and took out the letter:

Humming under my breath, I put the letter on my desk, then went into the kitchen and made coffee. I felt I had taken out all the insurance I needed.

At 11.30, shaved, showered and wearing my fancy cream and blue striped suit, I locked up my apartment and went down to the Maser.

I drove to the Country Club, parked and wandered into the spacious lobby. The time now was 11.55. I asked the porter if Mrs. Hamel had arrived.

“No, sir, not yet,” he told me.

I sat down where I could see the entrance, lit a cigarette and waited. I wasn’t expecting her to show, but I went through the motions. We had a date, but if she didn’t keep it, I would shift to operation B.

I waited until 12.30, then I went into the restaurant and had the club salad, taking my time. Just to make sure, after my lunch, I wandered down to the tennis courts and around the pool. Nancy Hamel was not in evidence.

So, operation B.

Bart, baby, I said to myself, as I walked to the parking lot, you can’t expect to pick up one hundred thousand dollars without working for it. So work for it.

I drove down to the waterfront, parked within sight of the Alameda bar, left the car and crossed the crowded waterfront to the Alameda entrance. Pushing aside the bead curtains, I walked into the big room.

There was a number of waterfront riff-raff up at the bar. Several tourists were eating at the tables. The Mexican waiters were busy, serving.

The fat barkeep gave me an oily smile as I walked up to the bar.

“Mr. Diaz,” I said. “Where do I find him?”

The barkeep’s little eyes widened.

“You want Mr. Diaz?”

“You deaf or something?” I gave him a smile to take the curse off it.

“Mr. Diaz is busy.”

“So am I. Hurry it up, fatso. Tell him it’s Bart Anderson.”

He hesitated, then moved down the bar to a telephone. He spoke softly, nodded and hung up.

“Through there,” he said, and pointed to a door at the far end of the room.

I walked over to the door, opened it and stepped into a room furnished as an office: a desk facing me, filing cabinets to the right and left of me, two telephones on the desk and a smaller desk on which stood a typewriter.

Sitting behind the bigger desk was a slim, middle-aged man who regarded me with glittering, flat eyes a cobra might envy. His thick, well-oiled black hair grew down to his collar. He had a black moustache that climbed down either side of his face to his chin. Looking at him, I saw why Al Barney had warned me about him. As Barney had said, this Mexican was a very tough hombre.

“Mr. Diaz?” I said, closing the door and leaning against it.

He nodded, found a matchstick and began to probe his teeth.

“Are you acting for Lucia Pofferi?” I asked, watching him.

His face remained deadpan.

“You’ve got a wrong number,” he said.

“Maybe you are acting for Nancy Hamel?”

“Maybe.”

“I had a date with her at the Country Club. She didn’t show.”

He lifted his shoulders and looked bored.

“I was expecting her to hand over a lump of the green,” I said. “No green.”

Again he lifted his shoulders and looked more bored.

I saw this was going to take a little time. I pulled an upright chair up to his desk and sat astride it. Then I took out the envelope containing a copy of my detailed statement and dropped it in front of him.

He eyed it and read what I had written on it.

“Are you expecting to die?” he asked quietly.

“Well, Pete Lewinski did. No, I’m not expecting to die now.”

He lifted his eyebrows.

“Don’t bet on it.”

“Go ahead and read what’s in the envelope. It’s for you to keep. After you’ve read it, maybe you’ll stop acting like a fugitive from a B movie, and start talking sense.”

His eyes gleamed, but his face remained expressionless.

Then he picked up a thin bladed knife lying on his desk, slit open the envelope and extracted the typewritten pages.

I lit a cigarette and watched him. He first examined the mug shots. They might have been blank bits of paper for all the impact they appeared to make on him. Then leaning back in his chair, he read through the five pages of typewriting, his face still expressionless.

I would hate to play poker with him, I thought as I waited.

Finally he laid down the sheets of paper and looked at me.

“And there is this,” I said, and handed him Howard Selby’s receipt.

This he studied, then placed it on top of the statement.

“Smells very strongly of blackmail,” he said. “Could get you fifteen years.”

“That’s a fact. Could get her twenty years in a smelly Italian jail, could get Pofferi the same, could get you five years for harbouring dangerous criminals.”

He reached in a box and took out a Havana cigar. He bit off the end, spat, then lit up carefully.

“What had you in mind, Mr. Anderson?”

“She told you. Let’s have some action. Breathing the same air as you, Diaz, is bad for my health.”

He blew smoke at me.

“She mentioned a hundred thousand,” he said, his eyes glittering. “I told her that was bluff.”

“Call it, and see what happens. It’s a hundred thousand or I blow the whistle.”

“And land in jail.”

“It won’t come to that. She’ll find the money. I have an ace against your king.” I leaned forward to stub out my cigarette in his ashtray. “Think about it. How much has she raised already?”

“Enough to pay you off if you play smart.”

“How much?”

“Fifty thousand.”

I shook my head.

“One hundred is better.”

He opened a drawer in his desk and began to put packets of $100 bills in front of me. He made a line of five packets. Then again from the drawer he took out a leather document case.

“Fifty thousand, Mr. Anderson, and I will throw in this very fine case,” he said.

I stared at the money and felt my hands turn clammy. I had never seen so much money in one lump, and the sight of all that green really turned me on.

“Seventy-five,” I said, my voice a croak.

“Fifty, Mr. Anderson. Act smart. She’s scraped the barrel.”

He began putting the packets info the document case and I just sat there, hypnotized. I knew I should bargain, but I also knew I hadn’t really believed it would be as easy as this: I didn’t really believe I would get anything. I had dreamed of laying my hands on big money, but up to this moment, I knew I had been kidding myself. Now, here I was being handed fifty thousand dollars! I could scarcely believe it.

He pushed the loaded case across his desk towards me.

“Don’t come back for more, Mr. Anderson,” he said, his voice soft, his eyes menacing. “Blackmailers are greedy, but this is the final payment. Okay?”

“Yes,” I said, and pushed back my chair.

“I promise you one thing, Mr. Anderson, if you try to put pressure on again, you will have an unpleasant end. I, personally, will take care of you. You will die slowly. Okay?”

I felt a chill run up my spine as our eyes locked. I have a dread of snakes, and right now, Diaz looked like a snake.

“You have yourself a deal,” I said. “Keep clear of me and I’ll keep clear of you.” I got to my feet, picked up the document case, then walked to the door. I paused and looked at him. “Was it you who killed Pete and the boy?”

He gave me a bored stare.

“Why should you care?” he asked, and began putting my statement back in its envelope.

I left him, crossed the bar and out into the hot sunshine. My one thought was to get this money into safekeeping. I drove fast to my bank, rented an individual safe, took from the document case five one hundred dollar bills and locked the rest away.

It was as I was about to head for home, I remembered Joey. I drove back to the waterfront, parked the car and walked fast to Lobster Court. I had to knock several times on Joey’s door before he opened up. He was wearing a pair of underpants and he looked sleepy.

“Did I wake you, Joey?” I said, moving into the room.

“It’s okay, Mr. Anderson.”

“Jimbo still on the job?”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson.”

“The job’s finished, Joey. Call him off. I don’t want them watched anymore.” I took out my wallet and gave him a $50 bill. “Okay?”

His eyes brightened.

“Gee! Thanks Mr. Anderson! You don’t want me to report anymore?”

“That’s right. Forget it, will you, Joey?”

He gave me an odd, sly smile.

“I don’t forget, Mr. Anderson. They killed Tommy.”

“Yeah, I know, but forget them. They are dangerous. Keep away from them. Okay?”

He smiled again.

“You look after your business, Mr. Anderson. Me and Jimbo will look after ours.”

“Now, wait a minute. Leave them alone! You can’t do anything to that bunch. They are in the big league.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded.

“Just as you say, Mr. Anderson.”

“That’s my boy!” I slapped him on his shoulder and went down the rickety stairs three at a time.

As I headed for home, I thought of all that green stuff stashed away in the bank. I could scarcely believe a snake like Diaz would have parted so easily. Well, he had parted, and I was rich!

This called for a celebration. Bertha and I would go out on the town! I looked at the dashboard clock. The time was close to 19.00. She would be back home by now. If she had a date, she would have to break it.

Leaving the Maser outside the highrise, I took the express elevator to my floor, unlocked the front door and hurried in. As I shut the door, the telephone bell began to ring.

Bertha! I grinned to myself. She could smell money two hundred miles away.

I snatched up the receiver.

“Hi, baby!”

A cool, detached voice, snooty and feminine, said, “Is that Mr. Bart Anderson?”

“Sure. Who is it?”

“Hold a moment. Mr. Mel Palmer wants to speak to you.”

Before I could think of a reason why I didn’t want to speak to him, there was a click, and Palmer came on the line.

“I have been trying to contact you, Mr. Anderson,” he said plaintively.

“Right now, Mr. Palmer, I am on vacation,” I said briskly. “If it’s anything important, will you call the office?”

“Mr. Anderson, I have given Mr. Hamel your report and he is satisfied, but he wants to talk to you personally.”

I blinked, then asked, “What about, Mr. Palmer?”

He heaved a sigh that came over the line like a death rattle.

“Mr. Anderson, if I could fathom every whim or request Mr. Hamel inflicts on me, I would be less neurotic that I am. All I know is he wants to see you at his place at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Tell him I’m on vacation,” I said, just to make life harder for him.

“Mr. Anderson! Please be there. Mr. Hamel is expecting you.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“What was that?”

“I’ll be breaking into my vacation so I will be working again. I don’t work for nothing.”

He gave a soft moan.

“Do I have to do this through Miss Kerry?”

“Send me a personal cheque for a hundred dollars, Mr. Palmer, and there’s no problem.”

“Very well. Can I tell Mr. Hamel to expect you?”

“You can bet your sweet life you can,” I said, and hung up.

Man! I thought, the green is rolling in. I dialled Bertha’s number. When she answered, I said, “Hi, gorgeous! Guess who’s calling?”

“Oh, you! Where’s the money I lent you?”

“Is that all you think about... money?”

“Where is it?”

“Honey, relax. We’re going to celebrate tonight. Hold onto your bra straps. I’m going to take you to the Spanish Bay Grill. How’s that?”

“Are you drunk?” Bertha demanded.

“Not yet, but we will be, and another thing, baby, I’ve been looking at my big double bed. It looks lonely.”

She giggled.

“Just tell me, Bart, have you got my money?”

“I’ve got it, baby. How about filling the second pillow?”

“The Spanish Bay Grill?”

“That’s it.”

“Do you know what they charge for a dinner I’m going to eat?”

“I know.”

“This I can’t believe. Have you robbed a bank?”

“I’ll give you one hour. If you’re not here in one hour, I’m calling another dolly bird.”

“Those pattering feet you are hearing running down the corridor to your door are mine,” and she hung up.

I replaced the receiver and cried Yip-hee!

Man! I said. Isn’t money beautiful!

After four champagne cocktails, I was reckless enough to confide in Bertha. We were sitting in the super-duper restaurant of the Spanish Bay Grill, and we had ordered a meal that made even Bertha’s eyes pop.

“How are you going to pay for it, Bart?” she asked. I believed she was anticipating the cops being called after we had eaten.

So I told her. I didn’t go into the small print, but I told her part of the story.

“The fact is, baby, Nancy Hamel hasn’t been behaving herself. By following her around I have opened a can of worms.”

Bertha stared.

“That prissy? What’s she been doing?”

“Never mind. I chatted her up. I produced the evidence. She didn’t hesitate. She said she would buy the evidence and for me to forget it. What could I do? I obliged the lady.”

Bertha patted my hand.

“I always knew that one day, kiddo, you would get smart. How much?”

“Fifty thousand bucks.”

The moment I said it, I regretted it, but the last cocktail was enough to push me over the edge of caution.

Bertha released a squeal that made everyone in the grillroom turn and stare.

“For God’s sake!” I said feverishly. “Remember where you are.”

“Fifty thousand dollars?” she hissed, leaning forward to gape at me.

“Yep!”

The waiter came forward to serve the caviar.

“Fifty thousand dollars!” Bertha repeated as soon as the waiter had gone. “What are you going to do with all that money?”

“You and I are going on vacation, baby. It’s time we relaxed. I’m thinking of hiring a yacht and drifting in the sun. Want to come?”

“Try and stop me! Honey, leave this to me. I have gentlemen friends. I know a fink with a gorgeous yacht, and I can talk him into letting us have it for practically nothing. Four crew, a French chef, a butler and the food!” She rolled her eyes. “For how long?”

“Now wait a minute. That sounds expensive.”

“How long?”

“Four weeks: no more.”

“I know he’s chartered that yacht for twenty thousand a week,” Bertha said. “I’ll bet my panties I can get it for twenty thousand for four weeks. Imagine!”

I stared suspiciously at her.

“How do you do that?”

“He’s a kink. All I have to do is toss off my clothes and dance around his apartment while he sits and drools.”

“For that he’ll let us have his yacht for four weeks for twenty thousand?”

“Well, he’ll expect a few extras, but it’s all sex by remote control. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Okay. It’s a deal. When do we take off?”

The salmon in aspic arrived.

“I’ll see him tomorrow and fix it.”

“Are you sure you can?”

She winked at me.

“Want to bet?”

“I may be rich, but I’m not stupid,” I said.

At 09.45 the following morning, feeling jaded, I pulled up before the pole barrier that guarded the Paradise Largo estates. The guard came out of his thatched roof cabin and walked majestically towards me.

I regarded him as he came: a big, red-faced Mick, around fifty, with weight lifting shoulders and a belly on him that a Japanese wrestler might envy. There was something familiar about him, then I recognized him: Mike O’Flagherty, who once worked as one of Parnell’s operators. He had retired a month after I had joined the outfit.

“For Pete’s sake, Mike,” I said. “Remember me?”

“Bart Anderson!” He shoved a big hairy hand through the open window and nearly dislocated my fingers. “How’s the boy?”

“What the hell are you doing here, dressed up like a Christmas tree?”

He grinned.

“Big deal, Bart. When I quit the Agency, I got myself a real softie. I’m one of the guards here. Nothing to do except make people’s lives miserable. I lean with my weight, make with the importance, and get paid for it.”

“When my time comes, sounds the job for me. Is there a waiting list?”

He laughed.

“Wouldn’t suit you, pal. This is strictly snob-land. What brings you here?”

“Mr. Russ Hamel. I have a date with him at ten.”

O’Flagherty’s eyes popped.

“Is that right? Mr. Hamel is one of our most important clients. Stick around, Bart. I’ll check.”

“What’s with the checking? Lift the pole and let me in.”

He shook his head.

“I’ll tell you something. This largo is the safest most secure spot in the whole of Florida. No one — repeat no one — goes past that pole without being checked, and without an appointment. No kidnapping, no break and entry, no nothing for the mugs. I’d lose my job if I didn’t check you out even though I know who and what you are.”

“Don’t tell me you check in and out the residents?”

“That would lose me my job.” He spat. “Man! The creeps and the bitches who live here turn my stomach! I know every one of them, know their car numbers. When I see them, up goes the pole. If I keep them waiting, they yell at me, but strangers... no!”

“Nice to be that rich.”

He grunted, and went back into the guardhouse. After a few minutes, he lifted the pole.

“Go ahead. First Avenue to your left. Third gate to your right. There’s a T. V. scanner at the gate. Get out of your car, hold up your driving licence, press the red button and wait. After you’ve waited until some goddamn butler has buttoned his pants, you’ll get in.”

“Some security,” I said as I set the Maser in motion.

O’Flagherty spat.

“You can say that again.”

I followed his directions and pulled up outside fifteen foot high, solid oak, nail encrusted gates. Getting out of the car, I pressed the red button on the gate post, held up my driving licence and waited. After a minute or so, the gates swung open: an impressive piece of security. Anyone planning to burglarize the Hamel residence would end in bitter frustration.

I drove up the sand covered drive, shaded by citrus trees, and to a deluxe ranch style house where a black man in tropical whites stood before the open front door.

I parked the Maser beside a Ford station wagon, got out and walked up the three steps.

“Morning, Mr. Anderson,” the black man said with a stiff little bow. “Mr. Hamel is expecting you. This way if you please.”

I followed him into a big lobby decorated in warm brown and orange, along a short corridor, out onto a patio where a big fountain in a bigger marble bowl, tossed water into the hot, humid air. Tropical fish swam lazily, looking well fed and smug. There were lounging chairs, glass top tables for when the sun went down. On we went, back into the house, down a passage to a door. Here the black man paused, rapped, then stood aside, opening the door.

“Mr. Anderson, sir,” he said, and motioned me forward.

All very impressive, rich, big wheel stuff. I am easily impressed by the show of money, so I was impressed.

“Come in, Mr. Anderson,” a voice called: a hearty, baritone of a voice of a man who is very sure of himself.

I entered the big air-conditioned room. It was a room I immediately envied: comfortable, intimate with lounging chairs, big settees, occasional tables, a big desk, teak polished floor with rich looking rugs, well stocked cocktail cabinet, tape recorders and an I.B.M. C82 typewriter on a typing table. A big picture window gave onto a lush lawn that sloped down to the canal.

Behind the desk sat Russ Hamel. He was just like his photograph: square faced, heavily built, tanned and handsome. He got to his feet and extended his hand.

“Good of you to come, Mr. Anderson. I hear you are on vacation.”

I made noises as we shook hands. He waved me to an armchair.

“Coffee? A drink? A cigar?”

“Nothing right now, thank you sir.” I sat down.

“I’ve read your report.” He tapped the report lying on his desk. “I bet you have no idea why I hired you to watch my wife.”

I looked straight at him, giving him my modified cop stare.

“That’s an easy one, Mr. Hamel. You wanted authentic material for the book you’re writing so you wrote yourself some poison pen letters, instructed your agent to hire us, picked on Mrs. Hamel as a stooge and asked me to come along so you could see what a shamus looks and acts like.”

He gaped at me, then threw back his head and burst out laughing. Right then I liked the guy: I really liked him.

“Well, for God’s sake! And I thought I was being smart. How did you find out?”

“I’m a private detective, Mr. Hamel. It’s my job to find out things like that as it’s your job to write very successful books.”

“You’re spot on, Mr. Anderson. I got stuck wondering how an Agency works.” He grinned. “Your report has been most valuable. Now would you mind telling me about yourself? I’d like to put you in my book.”

“I don’t mind, sir.”

“I won’t be wasting your time, Mr. Anderson. I pay for any material I collect.”

Man! I thought. Is this my golden age!

“That’s fine with me, sir. What do you want to know?”

We spent the next half hour, talking, or rather I did most of the talking, while he shot questions at me. He wanted to know about the organization of the Agency, the training of operators, my own background: all intelligent questions.

Finally, he nodded.

“Well, thanks, Mr. Anderson. You’ve given me just what I want.” He reached for my lengthy report. “But this is what I really wanted.” He regarded me with a smile. “This report of yours is not only of value for the book I’m writing, but it is more than valuable to me in my personal life.”

“Is that right?” I said blankly.

“My plot revolves around a woman married to a busy surgeon. She is considerably younger than he is,” Hamel said. “He gets poison pen letters about his wife so he has her watched. This is a tale of jealousy. The detective turns in a report that matches yours. The surgeon’s wife leads a blameless, lonely life. The reason why I decided to use my wife as a guinea pig is because I know for certain she also leads a blameless, lonely life.” He smiled. “I wasn’t taking any risks. I was sure, as I am sitting here, you would turn in a report like this one.”

I looked away.

Man! I thought, if you only knew what a can of worms you have opened, you wouldn’t be sitting there with that wide, confident smile on your face!

“I’m grateful to you, Mr. Anderson,” he went on, “for such a detailed report. I didn’t realize how dull and lonely my wife’s life has been while I have been locked away writing this book. That is going to be altered.”

I didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Anderson.” He produced a sealed envelope which he handed to me, then stood up. “Accept this as a fee.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hamel,” I said, and he conducted me to the door.

His black servant was waiting.

“So long,” Hamel said, shook hands and retired back to his room.

In the Maser, I lit a cigarette and wondered how long it would be before Hamel discovered he had married a murderess. With any luck, he might never know. I hoped he wouldn’t. I liked the guy. I liked him still more, when opening the envelope he had given me, I found I was $500 the richer.