A Can of Worms

Chapter seven

As soon as we had eaten an excellent lunch, Carl took himself off. I sat under the trees where I could see the house and the entrance gates, and made myself comfortable. I had Hamel on my mind. I now knew he had finished his book, and I remembered Palmer saying Hamel would pick up over eleven million dollars when the book was finished. So Hamel couldn’t plead poverty when I put on the bite. My thought now was when to bite him. Nancy had collapsed. Maybe this wasn’t the right time to approach Hamel. Maybe I had better wait. At the back of my mind, I knew I was kidding myself. It wasn’t because Hamel was having trouble with his wife that I was going to wait, it was because I was uneasy about putting pressure on him. He was nobody’s push-over. He was a toughie. He could tell me to go to hell, or even worse, call the cops, or do something desperate. I had an uneasy feeling he wouldn’t dig blackmail.

My mind shifted to Bertha, and I grimaced. I now regretted I had confided in her. She was now smelling a million dollars, and she wouldn’t stop nagging me until I did put on the bite.

I then went into my usual technicolour dream of owning a million dollars. This time, I swore to myself, when I got the money, I wouldn’t spend like crazy. I would buy stock for my old age, and live on the income, but even as I swore, I knew the million would vanish as quickly as Diaz’s fifty thousand had vanished. Money just wouldn’t stay with me.

Getting bored with my thoughts, I took a walk around the big garden. The flowers, the lawns, the shrubs were immaculate. A Chinese gardener, who looked like Judge Dee, was wagging his long beard over a bed of begonias. He gave me a squinting look of disinterest and returned to his beard wagging.

The big swimming pool looked inviting, but lonely. I wondered if Herschenheimer ever used it. I doubted it. He would probably think someone might jump out of the bushes and drown him.

I saw Jarvis, Herschenheimer’s butler, coming down the path towards me. Jarvis could have stepped out of the pages of Gone with the Wind. He was the most dignified old negro I have ever seen: tall, very thin, with crinkly white hair, large black eyes and heavy white eyebrows. He would have gladdened the heart of Scarlett O’Hara and the rest of her ilk. I had come to know him well when I last did this job, and I had found that he had an insatiable thirst for crime stories. He would sit for hours, listening to my lies, believing every yarn I dreamed up, with me the central, daring hero, to be true. In return, he provided me with splendid food, and often a box of cigars he had filched from his master.

His old face lit up with a wide smile when he saw me.

“What a pleasure, Mr. Anderson,” he said, shaking hands. “I asked for you, but Miss Kerry wasn’t sure you would be back from your vacation. I’m so glad. Did you have an enjoyable time?”

As we walked back to the cottage, I told him about the yacht, and about Bertha. He had heard from me about Bertha on my previous stint. I told him Bertha worked for the CIA, so anything I even hinted at about her, he absorbed with wide eyed interest.

When I ran out of telling him lies about my own adventures, I switched to Bertha who, according to me, made Mata Hari look like a convent novice.

We settled in the shade outside the cottage, and he began questioning me about what I had been doing. Having just read a Hadley Chase thriller, I outlined the plot to him, with me as a central character. When I had concluded, an hour later, he got reluctantly to his feet.

“You live a most remarkable life, Mr. Anderson,” he said. “I must now attend to Mr. Herschenheimer’s tea. I have invited Mr. Washington Smith to have dinner with me at seven. Perhaps you would join us? Mr. Smith is Mr. Hamel’s butler. He comes over here during his hours off. He is a pleasant, well-spoken man.”

“Sure,” I said. “Glad to.”

“I’ll arrange to have the meal served in the cottage. It will be more convenient for you to keep an eye on possible intruders,” and he gave me a bass laugh to show he was joking.

When he returned to the house, I walked down to the big tree by the entrance gates. It was screened from the house by other trees. I had no trouble swinging myself up to the lower branches, and from there, climbed up and up, until I was overlooking the high hedge that surrounded the Hamel residence.

Sitting astride a branch with my back to the tree trunk, I looked down into the Hamel garden and the ranch style house.

The Ferrari and the Ford wagon stood on the tarmac before the house. There was no sign of life. I sat there for the next two hours, but no one appeared. The house might have been empty.

At 19.00, Jarvis arrived at the cottage with Hamel’s butler.

“Mr. Washington Smith meet Mr. Bart Anderson who is looking after the security of the estate while Mr. Jordan is on vacation,” Jarvis said.

Mr. Smith smiled as we shook hands.

“We have met before Mr. Anderson.”

“That’s right. Glad to see you again.”

A young negro in white wheeled in a trolley, and quickly laid the table while Jarvis poured martini cocktails.

“Hey! I thought the boss didn’t dig liquor,” I said.

Jarvis smiled.

“There’s an old saying, Mr. Anderson, about what the eye doesn’t see.”

“The heart doesn’t grieve about,” Smith concluded as he reached for a glass.

It was during a good meal of pork chops in chili sauce that I began to pump Smith.

I said it was sad about Mrs. Highbee. I had been at the funeral, and had seen Mrs. Hamel collapse. How was she?

Smith munched for a few moments, then shook his head.

“She is recovering. Mrs. Highbee was her closest friend. It was a great shock, but she is recovering.”

“And Mr. Hamel?” I said, my voice casual. “I found him an impressive personality. He said he was going to use me in his book.”

Smith sighed.

“I’m worried about Mr. Hamel. He has never been happy since he took up marriage. I have been with him for the past fifteen years. He made a mistake marrying Mrs. Gloria... she was no lady. The divorce distressed him. I thought all would be well when he married Mrs. Nancy.” He looked at me. “I don’t know a nicer lady. I had every hope that the marriage would be a success, but Mr. Hamel is not happy. I don’t understand it.”

I could have told him. I remember what Gloria Cort had said: You’d think a guy who could write that stuff would be good in bed. Was I conned? He’s as useless to a woman as boiled spaghetti.

“Well, he certainly makes money with his books. I guess one can’t have everything,” I said.

“Yes, indeed. Tomorrow, he goes to Hollywood to discuss the film treatment,” Smith said. “The film will bring him a lot of money. Mr. Hamel is most generous. He always gives me and my wife, who does the cooking, a present when he sells a film.”

“How about the other staff?” I asked, probing. “Do they get something?”

“We have no other staff. In spite of his wealth, Mr. Hamel likes to live simply. He seldom entertains, and when he does, he hires staff and orders food. It is an easy place to run, and my wife and I are not pressed. He always has cold supper. That is why I am able to grace Mr. Jarvis’s excellent table.”

“I guess Mrs. Hamel will be going with him to Hollywood? Should take her mind off her loss.”

He shook his head.

“No, Mrs. Hamel will stay. It will only be for three or four days. I don’t think she feels like mixing with the Hollywood people.” He frowned. “They are very special.”

Jarvis, who had been listening without interest, broke in, “You must tell us about these two Indian boys who died, Mr. Anderson. I am sure you have theories about them.”

“Well, no. Even the police don’t understand it,” I said, thinking how their eyes would bolt out if I told them the facts. “But I can tell you about this odd business the Agency handled last year,” and I launched in to yet another of my made-up cases which kept them on the edges of their chairs until Smith said regretfully he had to get back or his wife would be wondering where he was.

Jarvis also remembered he had to see the old nut to bed. I was left on my own and with my thoughts.

I had learned a lot from Smith. He had confirmed what Gloria Cort had told me: Hamel was impotent. He had told me Hamel would be away for three or four days, leaving Nancy on her own. Hamel being away, gave me time. It would also keep Bertha quiet.

My afternoon hadn’t been wasted. I relaxed, and when I relax, my thoughts turn to money. I was still spending a million dollars when Carl arrived to relieve me.

“I bet you were busy,” he said, grinning.

“A beautiful dinner,” I said. “Man! Is this the job?”

I was getting into bed when the telephone bell rang. For a long moment, I hesitated to answer it, then I lifted the receiver.

“Bart!” Bertha’s strident voice hit my eardrum like a sledge hammer.

“Hi, honey,” I managed to say.

“What about it?”

“What about what?” Although I knew.

She made a sound a train whistle would envy.

“What’s happening? Have you seen him?”

“Relax... he’s away... Hollywood. I have it under control, baby.”

“When will he be back?”

“Don’t be so goddam anxious. Three or four days. Quiet down baby. I’m handling this... remember?”

“You’d better be. I’ve sold my apartment, and the furniture. Give with the action, Bart! As soon as he gets back, bite him!”

“You’ve sold...? What the hell are you saying?”

“Who wants to live in this crummy place when we’re worth millions?” Bertha demanded. “I had a good offer, so I’ve sold. Now the action is in your court.”

I suppressed a groan.

“Okay, okay. Three or four days. I’ll fix it.”

“Do that,” and she hung up.

Some minutes before midnight, I arrived at the Paradise Largo to begin my night’s stint. I stopped to chat up Mike O’Flagherty who was going off duty.

We talked of this and that, then I steered the conversation around to the Hamels.

“Any news of Mrs. Hamel?” I asked as I offered him a cigarette.

“The quack called again today. Mr. Hamel left early this morning. I hear he is going to Hollywood: a film deal.”

That was what I wanted to know. Hamel was now on his way to Hollywood.

I found Carl waiting to be relieved. Jarvis had left a stack of sandwiches for me in case I starved during the night.

“There’s a bottle of Scotch in my drawer,” Carl said. “Help yourself.”

When he had gone, I ate the sandwiches, had a couple of drinks, then walked to the tree by the gates. I climbed it, surveyed Hamel’s ranch house which was in darkness, and after waiting for more than an hour when nothing happened, I returned to the cottage, lay on the settee and went to sleep. Around five in the morning, I forced myself awake, shaved and showered, and wandered around the garden, trying to look like an energetic guard. At 08.00, Jarvis arrived with coffee, pancakes, maple syrup, grilled sausages and scrambled eggs.

While I ate, he talked. He said that as I would be on duty tomorrow at midday, he would arrange another dinner with Washington Smith. I said that was fine with me.

Carl relieved me at midday. I went swimming, then returned to my apartment and slept until 18.00. I didn’t feel like coping with Bertha, so I went to a bar for a drink, then feeling hungry, I headed to where I had parked the Maser. As I was getting into the car, I spotted Gloria Cort coming towards me.

“Hi, there!”

She stopped and regarded me, then she smiled, and came up to the Maser.

“Hi! Where did you spring from?” She leant against the car. Her breasts swung against the flimsy material of her dress.

“I’m about to feed my face,” I said. “Any chance of your company? I hate eating alone.”

She moved rapidly to the off-side and opened the passenger’s door.

“Where?”

“Do you like seafood?”

“I prefer meat. There’s a restaurant not far from here: Beef on the Hoof. Know it?”

Just like Bertha. The prices at this restaurant would have startled an oil Sheik.

“Not there,” I said firmly. “I know a joint where you can get a steak that sits up on your plate and makes bull noises.”

She laughed.

“Well, it was a try.” She settled herself beside me and her hand fell into my lap. “Nice car.”

I gently removed her hand.

“Not right now, baby... later, huh?”

I drove her to the restaurant which was off Paradise Avenue. It had piped music that blew your ears, a lot of action, and the waiters dressed as bullfighters.

When we had settled and ordered steaks, she leaned back, thrusting her breasts at me.

“Where have you been, handsome?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you since you blew into the Alameda.”

“I get around. What are you doing, footloose? Don’t you do an act there, or something?”

“Only Saturdays. What do you do?”

“Me? I chase the fast buck, and sometimes catch it. How’s Diaz these days?”

She gave me a long, searching look.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Bart Anderson.”

She nodded.

“Keep clear of Diaz, Bart.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

“Now I’m telling you. Keep clear of him.”

The steaks arrived and we began to eat.

“If he’s that poisonous, what’s a nice girl like you doing hooking up with him?”

“Who the hell said I was nice?” She pursed her lips and made a rude noise. “But you’re right. Whenever I meet up with a man, sooner or later, I ask myself what I’m doing with him, and I never come up with an answer. The trouble with me is I get infatuated. I got infatuated with that jerk Hamel. Then I got infatuated with this creep Diaz. If I told you how many goddamn finks I’ve got infatuated with it would take all night.”

“Tough,” I said. “How’s the steak?”

“Marvellous.” She started eating again.

So I let her eat. When she finished, she said she would have a sundae with plenty of bananas and cherries. I let her work through that while I drank coffee. When there was nothing more for her to eat, she nodded, pushed back her chair and stood up.

“Let’s go,” she said. “I’m going to give you a work out. It’ll be an experience you’ll write up in your diary.”

“I don’t keep a diary,” I said as I paid the check.

“But you will, brother! You certainly will!” Catching hold of my arm, she dragged me out of the restaurant.

The telephone bell brought me awake. I clawed open my eyes and squinted at the bedside clock. It showed 10.05. The sound of the bell pounded my brain. I heard a moan, then a four-letter word, and saw Gloria, half sitting up, naked, beside me.

“Stay still,” I croaked. “It’s nothing.”

I knew it was Bertha, trying to get to me. I had taken a risk, bringing Gloria to my apartment, but she had dangled her sexual equipment so enticingly, I had been swept off my feet.

I have bedded many dolls in my past, but Gloria was something else beside. As a bed partner, she was unique.

I had already told Bertha that I was back to the grindstone, and not to expect to hear from me for a few days, but now Bertha dreamed of sharing my million dollars, she would be hard to shake off.

After a few more rings, the telephone bell sulked into silence.

“Hi,” Gloria said, smiling at me. She looked depressingly lively. “That sure was a night, honey.”

Feeling boneless, I managed to nod.

“Some coffee. I’ll get it.” She slid off the bed and ran naked towards the kitchen. I watched her with carnal appreciation.

After a while, she came back with coffee: strong and reviving. We drank, and I slowly became knitted together. After another cup, this time laced with brandy, my brain began to function. Looking at her, as she sat beside me, I realized she could be useful to me: now was, the moment to fish for information.

“Baby,” I said. “Tell me about Diaz. Why has he lost his glamour for you?”

“Things are going on at the Alameda I don’t like.”

“What things?”

“I found that Alphonso is more dangerous than a rattlesnake. He has me scared.”

“I know that, but what’s going on at the Alameda?”

“People who talk come to a sudden end.”

“Like old Pete.”

“And those two kids. I’m not talking. I don’t want to end up the way they did.”

“Who wants to? But something is going on there, huh?”

“He’s hiding people there. He’s given them the top floor.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, and don’t want to know.” She set down her coffee cup. “Bart, I want out. I’ve had it up to here with this goddamn city. It’s time I moved on. I want to go to Frisco. There’s a guy there who does an act, and he wants me to join him, but he needs me to put up some money.”

“They always do, baby. Don’t get conned again.”

“He’s different. Will you stake me for ten thousand dollars, Bart?”

I gaped at her.

“I’ve got buzzing in my ears. For a moment, I imagined you said ten thousand dollars.”

She nodded.

“That’s what I said.”

“Ten thousand! Baby! That’s insane! I haven’t even two thousand.”

“Don’t lie!” Her face turned vicious. “I know Alphonso shut your mouth with fifty thousand. I was listening outside the door. I want ten of that or else...”

I suddenly realized I hadn’t any clothes on. The happy, sexy atmosphere had suddenly vanished. I slid off the bed and went into the bathroom. I shaved and showered, taking my time, my mind busy. When a woman, looking the way Gloria looked and said or else I knew I had to handle her very carefully.

When I returned to the bedroom, Gloria was dressed. She stood looking out of the window, her back turned to me, cigarette smoke making a spiral above her carroty hair.

I dressed, then went to the closet for my police special. The holster was hanging on the peg, but the gun was missing.

Bart, baby, I said to myself, you really have to handle this one with extreme care.

Gloria turned and lifted her right hand. The police special pointed at me.

“Looking for this, Bart?” Her voice was harsh and her eyes cold as ice.

“You wouldn’t want to shoot me, would you, honey?”

“I’ll shoot you in your goddamn leg if you don’t give me that money,” she said, and she looked vicious enough to do just that.

I moved carefully away and sat down.

“You squeezed fifty thousand out of Alphonso,” she went on, “now I’m going to squeeze ten thousand out of you.”

I drew in a long uneasy breath.

“Baby, I would give it to you if I had it. I’ve spent it.”

“Don’t give me that crap! No one spends that much money in five weeks!”

“You’re right. No one does, except me. I have a talent for spending money. I also have a talent for finding expensive dolls. All that beautiful loot went on a four week cruise. Where do you think I got this tan from? Working in a coal mine?”

She stared at me, and I saw her face start to fall to pieces.

“I want a getaway stake!” She lowered the gun. “You can’t have spent all that money!” A faint wail of misery crept into her voice. I relaxed a little. I was now over the danger line.

“I did. I can prove it. We’ll go to my bank, and they’ll tell you.”

“Oh, shut up!” She threw the gun on the bed and turned her back on me. I slid out of my chair, whipped up the gun and dropped it into my pocket. I began to breathe normally.

She spun around.

“What am I going to do? Freddie can’t have me unless I go into partnership with him. Can’t you find some money, Bart?”

“Rest your fanny, baby. Let’s see what we can do. Now start using your brains. Have you asked yourself why Diaz parted with fifty thousand without even a whimper.”

She sat down and stared at me.

“Why did he?”

“Because I opened such a can of worms he had to pay me to keep quiet.”

“What can of worms?”

“That’s something you don’t want to know about. It’s to do with this guy Diaz is hiding.”

“You mean the man and the woman?”

“A woman?”

“There’s a woman with him. I’ve heard them talking.”

I remembered the two beds in the tent on the pirates’ island, and the woman’s things I had seen. I had thought Nancy had used them when visiting Pofferi.

“Are you sure there’s a woman with him?”

“I’m sure. Who is he? What’s the fuss about?”

“Leave it. You want ten thousand to go to Frisco...right?”

“Are you deaf?” She thumped her fists on her knees. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“You could earn it, baby.”

She moved uneasily as she stared at me.

“You kidding?”

“You could earn it.”

“How?”

“I want to know what goes on at the Alameda. I want to know about this man and this woman Diaz is hiding. I want you to find out about them and tell me.”

She reared back.

“Do you imagine I’m that crazy?” Her voice was shrill. “I’m not finishing up like Pete and those two kids. No way!”

“Relax! All you have to do is to bug Diaz’s office. I’ve a gimmick which activates a tape recorder when someone starts talking. All you have to do is to plant the bug. No problem, baby. I’ll give you the bug and a recorder. Change the tape when it runs out. In one week from now, I’ll pay you ten thousand beautiful dollars in return for the tapes. How’s about it?”

I knew I was getting carried away. Unless Hamel came up with a million, I would never find ten thousand, but she wasn’t to know that. If the tapes came up with evidence that Diaz killed Pete and the two kids, I could squeeze him dry.

“Where will the ten thousand come from?” Gloria demanded. “You’ve just said you have no money.”

I gave her a confident smile.

“I haven’t right now, baby, but in a week, I will have. With some of the money I got from Diaz I bought a share of action with a friend of mine,” I lied. “It cost me five, but the return is a certain fifteen. Ten for you: five for me.”

I knew she had been conned most of her life by guys who could spin her a yarn. If I had even thought of spinning such a yarn to Bertha she would have crowned me with a beer bottle, but Gloria wasn’t in the same league as Bertha.

I watched her think. I could almost hear her think. There was a red light flashing in her tiny mind, warning her not to trust me, but the thought of getting her hands on ten thousand dollars turned the red light to green.

“How do I know you’ll give me the money?” she demanded.

“I swear it on my father’s tomb.”

She studied me suspiciously.

“How do I know your father is dead?”

“For Pete’s sake! Dial Heaven: they’ll tell you.”

She thought some more, but greed won over caution.

“Okay, I’ll do it, but if you don’t give me the money. I’ll cut off your family jewels.”

Washington Smith joined Jarvis and me for lunch. He had had a telephone call from Hamel, saying he would be returning that evening. It appeared the director of the film had been taken ill, so the meeting had been postponed for a week. Smith would be required to unpack for Hamel.

“How is Mrs. Hamel?” I asked, as Jarvis served chicken Maryland.

“I am glad to say she is much better. She left soon after Mr. Hamel departed. I understand she is spending the day on the yacht. Sun and the sea are great healers.”

It was while we were finishing the meal, the sound of a deep throated engine made Smith get to his feet.

“That must be Mrs. Hamel returning,” he said. “I know the sound of her car anywhere. I had better go.”

“Now, Mr. Smith,” Jarvis said, chidingly. “I am sure Mrs. Hamel won’t expect you to be on duty at lunch time. I have a very special Stilton I would like you to try.”

Smith hesitated, then sat down.

“Yes, you’re right. I informed Mrs. Hamel that I would be lunching here! A Stilton? What luxury!”

I pushed back my chair.

“I’d better show the flag,” I said, “but I won’t be long,” and winking at Jarvis, I set off down the drive towards the gates.

As soon as I was out of sight of the cottage, I broke into a run and climbed the tree to overlook the opposite hedge.

The Ferrari was standing before the house. The front door stood open. I waited. After five minutes or so, Nancy came out. She was wearing a dark blue turtle neck sweater, white slacks, her hair concealed by a red scarf, and enormous black goggles masked her face. She slid into the car and drove down to the gates which opened automatically. I looked straight down onto the roof of the car as, with a roar, if sped away.

I climbed down the tree and walked back to the cottage. Smith looked inquiringly at me as I took my place at the table.

“She’s gone,” I said. “She must have forgotten something.”

“Yes. Ladies have a habit of forgetting things. I left a note saying Mr. Hamel would be back at seven. No doubt she saw it.”

“Try a little more,” Jarvis said, scooping a big portion from the napkin wrapped cheese.

Smith left after 15.00. Jarvis retired for a nap. I sat in the shade, and also took a nap.

Around 19.00 while Jarvis was supervising the dinner, I again climbed the tree. There was no sign of the Ferrari. After a few minutes of patient waiting, I saw a taxi pull up. Hamel got out. He paid the cabby, then using a key, he unlocked the gates and walked up the drive. I saw he had swung the gates to, but they didn’t close.

As I watched him approach the house, I wondered if he would be surprised that Nancy wasn’t there to greet him. I also wondered where she was. She had been away from the house now for over six hours.

I descended the tree and walked back to the cottage.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Anderson. I was about to call you,” Jarvis said. “I hope this will be to your taste.”

I regarded the silver dish on which lay a magnificent salmon, poached in a cream and herb sauce.

“It looks good enough for two honest, hardworking men to eat, Mr. Jarvis,” I said, sitting at the table.

“I think champagne goes well with salmon. I ventured to put a bottle in the ice bucket.”

Man! I thought. This is the way to live!

As we ate, I launched into one of my fabricated crime stories. It was sometime after 21.00 that I brought the yarn to an exciting conclusion. We were sipping coffee, with a Napoleon brandy for support, when we both heard the sharp bang of a fired gun.

I put down my coffee cup and jumped to my feet. The shot had come from across the road.

Leaving Jarvis gaping, I ran fast down the drive to the gates. I was sure the shot had come from Hamel’s place. Moving across the road, I shoved open the Hamel gates, and started up the drive to the ranch house.

As I reached the front door, it was open, and Washington Smith appeared in the doorway. He was shaking, his eyes rolling, his face the colour of lead.

“Oh, Mr. Anderson...”

“Take it easy,” I said, and caught hold of him.

“Mr. Hamel... in his study,” Smith gasped, then his knees buckled.

I pushed him aside and walked into the big lobby. A fat, elderly negress sat on a chair, her apron covering her face, and she was making whimpering sounds. Crossing the patio, I walked to Hamel’s study. The door stood wide open.

I smelt gun smoke. Pausing, I looked into the big room where, not so long ago, Hamel had talked to me.

Facing me was his big desk. He sat behind the desk, his head resting on the highback of the desk chair, his eyes staring at me with the emptiness of death. Blood trickled down the right side of his face. Powder bums discoloured the small hole in his temple.

For a long moment, I stood looking at him and the only thought that came to me was I would now never own a million dollars. Then shaking off this depression, I moved into the room, and up to the desk. On the floor, by the chair lay a Beretta 6.35 pistol. I looked at it, but didn’t touch it. The air conditioner was on. The windows were closed. My eyes travelled to the desk. An IBM typewriter stood before Hamel and there was a sheet of paper in the machine.

There was writing. I leaned forward and read:

I stood away and stared at the dead man.

“You poor sap,” I said, half aloud. “You certainly got your values wrong.”

“Mr. Anderson...”

I turned.

Smith stood wringing his hands, in the doorway.

“He’s dead,” I said. “Don’t touch anything here.” I moved out of the room and closed the door. “Where’s Mrs. Hamel?”

“Dead? Oh, Mr. Anderson... he was so good to us.”

“Get hold of yourself!” I barked. “Where’s Mrs. Hamel?”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t returned.”

Then it flashed into my mind that if Nancy found me — the guy who had bitten her for fifty thousand dollars — plus the news her husband had killed himself, she might flip and start trouble I wouldn’t want. I decided to do a quick fade.

“Mr. Smith! Listen carefully. I’ll get action. Don’t let Mrs. Hamel go in there. Just wait... okay?”

He nodded dumbly.

Moving fast, I left the ranch house and ran back to the cottage where Jarvis was waiting, his big black eyes alarmed question marks.

Briefly, I told him that Hamel had killed himself. Then I went into the cottage for the telephone, then paused. Mel Palmer had to be the first on the scene, then the cops.

Jarvis was hovering around.

“Got a telephone book?” I demanded.

He produced the local book. I found Palmer’s home number and, praying he would be home, I dialled.

I had to talk my way around a snooty sounding butler before Palmer came on the line.

“What is it, Mr. Anderson?” he asked crossly. “I have guests.”

“Russ Hamel has just shot himself,” I said. “He’s dead. Mrs. Hamel isn’t home. There’s a suicide note in his typewriter the press will love. I leave it to you to call the police.”

“I don’t believe it!” Palmer croaked.

“He’s dead. Get moving,” and I hung up.

As I moved out of the cottage into the humid darkness, I heard the throaty roar of the Ferrari. Nancy was back! I belted down the drive and climbed the tree. I was in time to see Nancy getting out of the car. She walked slowly up the steps to the front door. The porch light was on and I could see her clearly. Then Smith opened the door. He stepped back, and she moved forward and out of sight. The door closed.

I would have given a lot to have been able to watch Nancy’s reactions when Smith broke the news to her. Had she loved Hamel or had she married him only to escape from the Italian police?

Then a thought struck me with considerable force. By Hamel’s stupid suicide, Nancy would inherit his wealth, his copyrights and his film earnings. As his widow, she would become immensely rich!

Then my mind switched to Pofferi. According to Lu Coldwell, Pofferi had come to the United States to raise money for his murderous organisation. Nancy was his wife. He would have access to Hamel’s fortune to be used to finance the Red Brigade!

I climbed down the tree and walked back to the cottage, my mind busy. As I reached the cottage, I heard the telephone bell ringing. Entering, I picked up the receiver.

“Mr. Anderson,” Jarvis said. “Mr. Herschenheimer heard the shot. He is extremely nervous. I am staying with him. Will you watch the gates? I told him about this unfortunate suicide, but he doesn’t believe it. He is sure an assassin is on the island.”

“Okay,” I said. “Tell him no one will get near him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson. He will be relieved.”

I replaced the receiver, then realizing that Mel Palmer could have trouble getting past the security barrier, I called Mike O’Flagherty at the guardhouse.

I explained the situation.

“I’ve alerted Mr. Hamel’s agent, Mr. Palmer,” I said. “He’ll be arriving any moment. Let him through, Mike. The police will also be arriving. Let them through.”

“Holy Mary!” Mike exclaimed. “The poor man has killed himself?”

“Let Mr. Palmer through,” I said, and hung up.

I went down to the gates and waited. Ten minutes later, a Cadillac pulled up outside Hamel’s gates. I watched Palmer get out of the car, push open the gates and hurry up the drive.

I waited, and while I waited, I thought of the fifty thousand dollars I had squandered. I stopped thinking when I began to think of my future: those thoughts were too depressing.

Around 23.00, a police car arrived. From it spilled Tom Lepski and Max Jacoby. I walked across the road as they got from the car.

Lepski regarded me.

“What’s cooking?” he demanded.

I explained I had been on duty guarding Herschenheimer. I had heard a shot, found Hamel dead, alerted Palmer and was now back on guard duty.

Lepski glared at me.

“Why didn’t you call us?”

“That’s Palmer’s job,” I said. “The suicide note could be damaging. There’s a load of money involved.”

“What suicide note?”

“Hamel was impotent according to the note. The press will love it, Tom. A big selling author of porno, impotent! It’s something only Palmer can handle.”

“You have been up there?”

“I found him.”

Lepski’s eyes narrowed.

“Touch anything?”

“Come on, Tom, you know better than to ask a stupid question. Mrs. Hamel was out on the yacht. She got back around half an hour ago.”

“Okay. I’ll want to talk to you again,” and he and Jacoby hurried up the drive.

Just before midnight, Carl arrived to relieve me.

“Mike told me,” he said. “Excitements, huh?”

“You can say that. The old nut is laying an egg. He heard the shot.”

Carl groaned.

“That means I keep awake tonight.”

“That’s what it means.”

“Had some excitement down on the waterfront this afternoon,” he said, and laughed. “Some joker let off a smoke bomb on the harbour. Man! You should have seen the panic! I was getting a snack at the Alameda bar when the bomb went off! In two seconds, the rubberneckers and all the other crumbs vanished. Some kid, I guess, but you should have seen how fast everyone ran.”

I wasn’t interested.

“I guess I’ll get home,” I said. “See you tomorrow and keep alert.”

Carl laughed.

“Oh, sure.”

“If the cops want me, tell them I’m home.”

“Why should they want you?”

“Why do cops want anything?”

We walked together up the drive.

“Why did this rich jerk want to knock himself off?”

“It happens,” I said, started the car and drove down to the barrier.

O’Flagherty came out of the guardhouse.

“What a thing!” he said. “Why should Mr. Hamel do that?”

“It happens,” I said and gunned the engine impatiently. He took the hint and lifted the pole. I gave him a wave and headed for home.

The first thing I did when I had shut my front door was to pour a double Scotch. I took the drink to a lounging chair and sat down.

The time was 00.30. Should I call Bertha and break the news? I didn’t believe she had sold her apartment and her furniture, but suppose she had? I had a depressing feeling that as soon as she learned there was to be no million dollars, I would see the last of her.

The telephone bell rang.

Bertha?

I hesitated, then got up and walked over to the desk. Lifting the receiver, I said, “Hello there?”

“Mr. Anderson?”

I stiffened. I recognized Joey’s voice.

“That you, Joey?”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson.”

“I’ve been trying to contact you. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Jimbo. Where are you calling from?”

“Mr. Anderson, that man left the Alameda this morning. I’ve been trying to get you.”

“The man who’s hiding there?”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson. I saw him leave. I saw someone throw something from the upper window. It exploded in smoke. There was excitement. While everyone was running, the bearded man came out and got in the boot of a car that was parked right outside.”

“What car, Joey?”

“A Ferrari. There was a woman, driving. As soon as he was in the trunk, she drove off. No one saw, but me. Everyone was running around because of the smoke.”

“What time was this, Joey?”

“Eleven forty, Mr. Anderson.”

“Was the woman wearing a red head scarf and big sunglasses?”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson.”

“Right. Now listen, Joey...”

The line went dead as he hung up.

I replaced the receiver and stood staring down at the carpet.

Nancy had left home soon after Hamel had left for Hollywood. She had returned a little after midday and had left again five minutes later.

I lit a cigarette with a slightly unsteady hand.

She had brought Pofferi, hidden in the trunk of the Ferrari, to the ranch house. O’Flagherty would have waved her through.

Pofferi had been hidden somewhere in the ranch house when Hamel had returned.

Suicide?

I crushed out my cigarette.

Hamel hadn’t committed suicide. Pofferi had murdered him!