A Can of Worms

Chapter nine

I sat up in the tree and looked down at the ranch house. There was a light behind the curtain windows of the living room. From time to time, a shadow passed: Pofferi, then Jones. The rest of the house was in darkness. There was no action, but I waited until the light went out and a light went on in two of the bedrooms. I waited until those lights went out, then I climbed down and walked to the cottage.

While I watched, I had been using my brains. I decided that my first idea about going to Nancy, after she had been rescued and claiming that I had saved her, and how about some financial reward, was hasty thinking. I reminded myself that I had already tried to put the squeeze on her. She would be hostile when the time came for me to give her my respectful smile.

Bart, baby, I said to myself, you’ll have to find a different approach. You need help to swing this. You need to give this a lot more thought.

I settled on the couch in the living room of the cottage, ate the beef sandwiches Jarvis had left me, and I worked at it until my brain began to creak. Around 02.15, I had a workable solution. I took a long look at this solution, decided it would hold together, patted myself on the back, then I went to sleep.

I woke as the sun came through the curtains. The time was 07.30. I roused myself, took a shower, shaved, dressed, then stepped out into the warm air, looking hopefully for Jarvis to bring breakfast.

When he did arrive, I was looking like an alert guard who had been on the job throughout the night.

I asked after the old nut.

“He is still very upset, Mr. Anderson,” Jarvis said as he placed the loaded tray on the table. “I am keeping him under sedation.”

“Best thing,” I said as I sat down. There were pancakes, sausages, grilled ham and a pile of scrambled eggs.

Jarvis sat by my side as I ate. He talked of his friend, Washington Smith. I listened and did a lot of sad head wagging, but the recital didn’t stop me eating.

“It is something I can’t understand,” Jarvis said. “People who are rich enough to employ servants are unpredictable. To be dismissed after fifteen years’ service! It is quite shameful.”

I said it was, finished the coffee, then patted his arm.

“I can’t see that happening to you, Mr. Jarvis.”

“I trust not, but Mr. Herschenheimer is also unpredictable.”

Taking the tray, he left me. I went down to the tree, climbed it and surveyed the ranch house. Josh Jones was standing in the doorway of the front door, smoking. Around his waist, cowboy style, was a gun belt from which dangled a mean-looking.45. Hidden in the foliage of the tree, I watched him. He remained there, breathing in the warm air, motionless and menacing. I told myself that Coldwell and his men wouldn’t have a picnic when they moved in.

After a while, he stepped back and closed the front door. I waited, but there was no further action. I wondered what was happening to Nancy. Maybe, like the old nut, she was under sedation.

When it was 11.30, I returned to the cottage and waited for Carl to relieve me. As soon as he arrived, I got in the Maser and headed for Mel Palmer’s office.

Palmer’s secretary was a sexy-looking doll with Venetian red hair and a bust line that would make a brigade of guards misstep. She eyed me the way she would eye a roach in her soup.

“Mr. Palmer,” I said, giving her my sexy smile. “Bart Anderson.”

“Have you an appointment, Mr. Anderson?” Cool and distant as the moon.

“Just tell him. I don’t need an appointment.”

She hesitated, then rising from behind her desk, she went into an inner office. She was a tail-wagger: a condition that always makes me horny.

She stood in the doorway and jerked her head.

“Mr. Palmer will see you.”

As I passed her, my right hand strayed, but that had happened to her countless times, and my hand encountered nothing.

Palmer, dwelling behind a big cigar, regarded me doubtfully.

“What is it, Anderson?”

I selected a comfortable chair and sat down.

“Your client, Mrs. Nancy Hamel,” I said. “She is your client?”

“Of course. What about her?” He looked impatiently at his watch. “I have an important lunch date.”

“This is something you will want to hear, and it can’t be rushed. Did you know Mrs. Hamel had an identical twin sister?”

He blinked.

“No, but is that important?”

“The twin is Lucia Pofferi, an Italian terrorist wanted for two murders. Her husband, Aldo Pofferi, is also a terrorist; one of the leaders of the Italian Red Brigade, wanted for at least three murders, and I have proof he murdered Russ Hamel.”

If I had driven a nail into his fat behind, he couldn’t have reacted more. His face flushing, his eyes bulging, he jumped to his feet.

“Are you drunk?” he squealed. “How dare you say such a thing!”

“The FBI have the facts, and they are taking action tonight.”

“Good God!” He sank into his chair and began mopping his face with a silk handkerchief.

“It’s a complicated story,” I said. “You had better hear it from the beginning. When it is finally sorted out, the publicity will be red hot. It can’t do Hamel’s books any harm. Handled right, it should treble his sales, and you’re the man to handle it right.”

That made him take notice as I knew it would. He put away his handkerchief and put on his business face.

I gave him the same story as I had given Lu Coldwell. I concluded by saying, “So the set-up is this: the two terrorists hold Nancy Hamel in her home. The woman who joined you when I found Hamel dead wasn’t Nancy, but Lucia.”

“Damn it! I’ll swear it was Nancy, he muttered.

“Identical twins, and you saw her in half-light and you were naturally shocked. Nancy will certainly be murdered once she has been forced to sign a batch of cheques which will give her sister access to Hamel’s money.”

He sat and thought, then he nodded.

“That would explain it. Only this morning, this woman telephoned me. She sounded hysterical. She told me she couldn’t attend her husband’s funeral and asked me to handle all the details. She asked me to leave her alone. She had to grieve by herself.”

“Sure, that figures. Lucia wouldn’t want to expose herself to a lot of mourners, and she’s not risking seeing you again.”

“Good God!” Palmer began to mop his face again.

“I’m going to make a suggestion to you, Mr. Palmer,” I said, putting on my sincere expression. “I’m going to suggest that you appoint me as Mrs. Hamel’s representative.”

He stopped mopping his face and regarded me suspiciously.

“Mrs. Hamel’s representative? What does that mean?”

“Someone, representing her, should be on the spot when the Pofferis are taken. Someone who can get Mrs. Hamel away before the press move in. Mrs. Hamel will be in shock. She must not be exposed to the press until she has recovered.” I leaned forward and stared hard at him. “You are Mrs. Hamel’s representative. Do you want to be there during the gun battle? The FBI expect to kill both Pofferi and his wife. It will be a battlefield. Do you want to be there or do you want me to be there, acting on your behalf and Mrs. Hamel’s behalf?”

He reacted as I knew he would react. The very thought of putting himself anywhere near a gun battle made his face turn a shiver.

“Yes, yes, I see what you mean. Would you do that, Mr. Anderson?”

I put on my modest expression.

“That’s my job. Leave this to me I guarantee Mrs. Hamel’s safety, and also guarantee the press won’t get near her.”

“How will you do that?” He frowned suspiciously. “How will you get her off the Largo without the press knowing about it?”

I hadn’t battered my brains for nothing. I had all the answers.

“By helicopter, Mr. Palmer. I have a good friend who owns a chopper. As soon as the battle is over, he will land and we’ll whisk Mrs. Hamel away. I suggest you reserve a penthouse suite at the Spanish Bay. They have a chopper landing pad on the roof. Mrs. Hamel can stay there until she recovers. The hotel won’t let any unauthorised person near her.”

His fat face brightened.

“That is an excellent idea. The Spanish Bay Hotel have a resident doctor and nurse should Mrs. Hamel need medical care. I’ll leave the helicopter arrangement to you Anderson. I will take care of the reservation. I must go now.”

“There are two little things, Mr. Palmer,” I said, giving him my boyish smile. “I need written authority from you that I am acting as Mrs. Hamel’s representative. The FBI might be difficult unless they know I have official standing.”

“Yes, yes.” He called in his tail-wagging secretary and dictated to her the necessary authorization. “Get it typed right away.”

She eyed me as she left the room.

“And the second thing?”

“Expenses. I’ll need two thousand for the chopper and the pilot.”

He stiffened.

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Danger money, Mr. Palmer. There’s going to be a shoot-up. The money will come from Hamel’s estate, so why should you care?”

“Yes, of course.”

The secretary returned with the authorization, and Palmer signed it.

“Give Mr. Anderson two thousand dollars in cash, Miss Hills.” Palmer shook my hand and made for the door. “When will this operation take place?”

“Tonight.”

“I will be waiting at the hotel.” Nodding, he was gone.

Miss Hills regarded me.

“Two thousand in cash?”

“That’s what the man said.”

I followed her out of the office, waited until she produced the money, then stowed the money in my wallet.

“Did anyone tell you you have big, beautiful eyes?” I said.

“Frequently,” she returned coldly. “I’m busy. Bye, Mr. Anderson,” and she sat down and began to type.

I filed her away for future reference. She would need working on. Now wasn’t the time.

Bart, baby, I said to myself, as I climbed into the Maser, everything, so far, is going your way.

Zero hour was to be 03.00.

As Nancy Hamel’s representative, plus the fact that I had been inside the ranch house and knew its geography, I was given a seat at the round table in the conference room at the Mayor’s office.

Mayor Hedley, Chief of Police Terrell, Sergeant Hess, together with Coldwell, Stoneham and Jackson of the FBI, were present.

Coldwell explained that the information he had revealed to the other men had come from an informer. No questions were asked about the informer. Coldwell went on to say that I was present as I had been instructed to get Mrs. Hamel away from the press as soon as the Pofferis had been taken.

I drew a plan of the ranch house, explained the electronic controls at the gate, explained that, as a guard working for Mr. Herschenheimer, I had been keeping watch on the ranch house and I knew where Nancy Hamel was located. I put an X on the map of the house.

After more talk, it was decided to cut off the electricity on the Largo so a silent entry could be made through the gates. Police guards were already in place. When the time came, the three FBI agents, supported by ten armed police would storm the house.

I then went on to tell them that I had arranged for Nick Hardy in his chopper to be overhead at Zero hour, and when Nancy Hamel was freed, I would be on the spot to convey her by air to the Spanish Bay hotel where Mel Palmer would be waiting to take care of her.

There were no objections, and the meeting broke up.

I had paid Nick Hardy five hundred dollars for his services. That left me fifteen hundred dollars in hand. The time when the meeting broke up was 19.30. I had a lot of hours to kill before the action. I returned to my apartment, hesitated, then called Bertha.

When she came on the line, I said, “Is that Mrs. Fink?”

She giggled.

“Oh, you.”

“Who else? Baby, I’m lonely. Are you married yet?”

“Next week, and listen, Bart, I told you we were through. When I say a thing, I mean it!”

“Since when? Listen, baby, I have a wallet stuffed with the green. How about you and me sharing a gorgeous dinner at the Spanish Bay grill?”

“How did you get the money?” Bertha demanded.

“Don’t ask silly questions. Do you or don’t you want to share this meal with me?”

There was a long pause.

“I’m engaged to be married,” she said feebly.

“Since when did that stop any right minded doll accepting an invitation?”

“Well, okay, Bart, but this will be the last time.”

“Fine. We will eat at nine-thirty. Come over here right away, baby.”

“If we are eating at nine-thirty, why should I come over to you right away?”

“Guess,” I said, and hung up.

I drove Bertha back to her apartment around 01.30. It had been a very satisfactory evening. We had done our physical gymnastics together until it was time to eat. We had eaten a beautiful, sustaining meal, we had danced, then we had sat on the crowded terrace in the moonlight, holding hands.

“Bart, I wish this could go on forever,” Bertha sighed. “I know you are a heel, but you are a beautiful heel.”

I patted her hand.

“Get married, baby. Get some security. That’s what really counts. Once you get it, you can enjoy yourself. Your fink won’t know if you get something on the side. I’ll be around.” I gave her my boyish smile. “Next time, you’ll pick up the check. Imagine! It will give you a marvellous lift.”

She laughed.

“Bart! You’re hopeless!”

Leaving her, I drove to Paradise Largo. There were two cops standing at the barrier with O’Flagherty. He came over to me, his eyes popping with excitement.

“This is going to be some night, Bart,” he said.

“You can say that again.”

The two cops came over and peered at me, then nodded to O’Flagherty who lifted the barrier.

It had been agreed at the meeting that Carl should be alerted. He opened the gates to let me in. He too was excited. We went up to the cottage to find Jarvis with drinks and sandwiches. I told them what was about to happen.

“There could be a lot of noise,” I said. “Better give the old nut a real shot so he sleeps through it.”

Jarvis said he had already done that.

I looked at my watch. Another hour. I ate the sandwiches, took a drink, then walked down to the tree.

So far, it was going beautifully, I thought, but the crunch would come when I walked in to take Nancy to the chopper. Man! Could that turn sour!

Suppose she recognized me and blew the whistle on me to Coldwell? I thought about this, and although the thought gave me goose pimples, I told myself in the heat of the moment, the noise, the confusion, the cops trampling around, she might not connect me with the guy who had tried to blackmail her. Besides, with luck she would be half doped. It was a gamble I had to take.

I climbed the tree. Immediately below me, I could see shadowy figures. The FBI and the cops were already gathering. I looked over at the ranch house. It was in total darkness.

I wondered if they had posted a guard: either Jones or Pofferi, but doubted it. They must have felt completely secure behind those electronically controlled gates and on the Largo.

I recognized Coldwell’s tall figure.

“All in darkness,” I called down softly. “No movement.”

He glanced up, grunted, then drawing the group to him, he began going over his instructions again in a whisper.

The men were standing by the gates.

Faintly, in the distance, I could hear the approaching chopper. Nick had instructions from me to stay overhead until I flashed a torch, then he was to turn on his floods, and make a landing on Hamel’s lawn.

Coldwell said, “The current’s off.”

The moon, coming from behind a dense pack of cloud, cast light on the gates.

I saw a car being pushed down the road by four cops. Coldwell and his men shoved open the gates and the four cops pushed the car onto the drive to the ranch house. They had some hundred of yards to cover before they reached the vast expanse of lawn. There they stopped. Coldwell’s men fanned out and moved into the shrubs, keeping away from the nakedness of the lawn.

I was puzzled by the car until suddenly the headlights went on: not ordinary headlights, but powerful beams, specially fitted to the car.

The beams lit up the front of the house.

Coldwell, using a bullhorn, began yelling to Pofferi to come out with his hands in the air. His voice, greatly magnified, seemed to hit the house like the blows of a sledgehammer.

Nothing happened.

Coldwell’s voice continued to hammer against the house. I felt a trickle of sweat run down my face.

Coldwell was taking no chances. He just kept yelling. All his men were now lying flat, concealed in the many flowering shrubs.

Still nothing happened.

Coldwell stopped yelling.

Overhead was the noisy clatter of the chopper, its lights winking. I wondered how Nick was enjoying this movie-like scene.

Then there came a clunk, and the first gas bomb smashed a window. A moment later, gas began to drift out onto the lawn.

Jones was the first to appear. He threw open the front door, then a gun blazing in his hand, he tried to run towards the shadows, away from the blinding lights.

A gun banged and Jones reared back, clawing at the air. The gun banged again and Jones slid down on his knees and straightened out.

One down and two to go, I thought, watching tensely.

Coldwell began to bawl through the bullhorn.

“Pofferi! Come on out with your hands behind your head!”

The gas smoke was thinning. I thought of Nancy, and hoped they wouldn’t fire more gas bombs.

Then out of the shadows at the far end of the house came gunfire. One of the headlights of the car went out. Flashes lit up the darkness. I heard a cop yell. Another cop sprang upright, then staggered back and dropped.

The other cops and the Agents directed a withering fire in the direction of the flashes. Then I saw Pofferi, outlined in the light of the single beam, a revolver in either hand, move crab-like, half bent double, his white shirt stained red with blood, but he kept firing.

A burst of gunfire. I saw bullets slam into him. He was swept off his feet and fell.

I wiped the sweat off my face.

Two down, and one to go.

“Come on out, Lucia!” Coldwell bawled. “With your hands behind your head!”

A long pause, then I heard screams. Lucia came out into the dazzling light as if she had been projected from a cannon.

I saw her clearly.

She had on black slacks and a scarlet shirt. As she staggered through the doorway, she screamed, “Don’t shoot!” Her hands were waving frantically. She had an object in each hand. She hadn’t taken more than ten steps before she exploded.

There were two blinding flashes, two bangs that sent me rocking on the tree branch, then the whistling sound of shrapnel.

Rather than be taken, Lucia had blown herself to pieces, Japanese style, with hand grenades.

I looked down at the scene, feeling sick. All that was left of Lucia Pofferi was a ghastly mess of ripped flesh, intestines and shattered bones.

It was the finish!

I shimmed down the tree, ran across the road, paused to signal to Nick, hovering overhead, then ran up the drive.

The Agents and the cops were moving around: some of them attending to the two wounded cops, some checking Jones’ body, others Pofferi’s body. Coldwell was staring at the gruesome remains of Lucia.

I didn’t stop. I ran into the house, ran down the long corridor, pausing to throw open doors until I reached a locked door.

The gas smoke was now so weak, it only irritated my eyes. Standing back, I slammed my foot against the lock of the door. As I did so the electric current was restored and the corridor lit up.

The door swung open.

I stood in the open doorway, looking into a big, lighted room: a woman’s luxury bedroom. There was a double bed facing me. Sitting on the bed, her face in her hands, was Nancy Hamel. She was shivering, and frightened whimpers came from her.

Bart, baby, I thought, if she recognizes you and flips her lid, this set-up is going to turn sour. I moved slowly into the room.

“Mrs. Hamel.”

She stiffened, snatched her hands from her face and stared at me. Her eyes were wide, her mouth slack. Then like a frightened animal, she sprang to her feet.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hamel,” I said in my soothing voice. “You are safe.”

She stared at me.

“My sister!” Her hands covered her face and she moaned. “She said she would kill herself. What happened?”

I began to relax. She hadn’t recognized me!

“It’s over, Mrs. Hamel,” I said. “I’m here to take you away from all this. Mr. Palmer has arranged to get you to the Spanish Bay hotel where you can rest. There’s a helicopter waiting.”

“Lucia is dead?” She stared at me. “They are all dead?”

“Yes. Let’s go, Mrs. Hamel. Is there anything you want to take with you?”

She hid her face and began to sob.

I waited, looking at her. She was wearing a dark green trouser suit. If she was to stay out of sight at the Spanish Bay hotel, she would need other clothes. I looked helplessly around.

“Mrs. Hamel!” I put a bark in my voice. ‘You’ll need things. Let me help you pack.”

She shuddered, then waved to a closet.

“The bag.”

I opened the closet door and found a big suitcase.

“Lucia told me to pack,” Nancy said. “She knew this was the end.”

“Let’s go.” I lifted the suitcase as Coldwell came to the door. “All set, Lu,” I said. “Take the bag. I’ll help Mrs. Hamel.”

I went to her and pulled her gently to her feet. With my arm around her, I led her to the front door. The car lights had been turned off, but the smell of Lucia’s disintegrated body hung foully on the hot air.

Nancy took one breath, screamed and fainted. I just managed to catch her, then scooping her up in my arms, hurried across to the waiting chopper. Coldwell helped me lift her inert body into the chopper.

Nick, his eyes bugging, took her from us and laid her across the back seat. Coldwell pushed in the suitcase, then stood back.

“Let’s go,” I said as I dropped into the seat beside Nick.

“Man! I saw it all!” he exclaimed as he gunned the engine. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world!”

I wasn’t listening. As the chopper lifted, I turned around to look at Nancy. Her face was white, her eyes closed.

So far, fine, I thought. She hasn’t recognized me, but she surely must when she is out of shock. Play one card at the time. At least, you have established the fact that it was you who rescued her.

It took less than ten minutes for Nick to land on the Spanish Bay hotel helicopter pad. As he switched on the landing lights, I could see Mel Palmer, a nurse and two white coated interns, waiting.

As the chopper grounded, Nancy stirred, then sat up.

“What’s happening?” she demanded shrilly. “Where am I?”

I turned to face her. The light in the cabin was strong enough to light both our faces.

“Mrs. Hamel, you are safe,” I said. “You’re at the Spanish Bay hotel and Mr. Palmer is waiting to take care of you.”

She stared fixedly at me.

“Who are you?”

“The guy who rescued you,” I said, and gave her my boyish smile, but I was puzzled. It was hard to accept that she didn’t remember that time when we had sat facing each other on the terrace of the Country Club when I had tried to put the squeeze on her, but I could see she didn’t remember, and I began to relax. “You have nothing to worry about. You are now safe.”

Nick opened the door of the chopper. I slid out. Nancy got unsteadily to her feet. Nick helped her descend and I took over. She leaned against me as Palmer came fussily up.

The two interns took over. I stepped back to give Palmer room to go into his soothing act.

For tonight, there was nothing more I could do. I watched her being led across the roof with Palmer murmuring. Then at the elevator that would take them down to the penthouse, she abruptly turned.

“Where’s my bag?”

The strident, urgent snap in her voice was a complete give away. Up to this moment, she had had me fooled, but that snap in her voice sent a cold prickle up my spine. That wasn’t the voice of a woman who had just lost her sister, just lost her husband, a woman everyone described as ‘nice.’ This was the voice of a dangerous, ruthless terrorist!

For a long moment, I stood still, absorbing the shock. Then my brain moved into action. Here was the answer to the puzzle why this woman I had thought was Nancy hadn’t recognized me. Lucia Pofferi had never seen me! So how could she recognize me? Into my mind flashed the picture of the woman I had thought was Lucia, staggering out of the ranch house, screaming: Don’t shoot! Lucia had sacrificed her sister in a ruthless attempt to escape! She had strapped live grenades to Nancy’s hands, then kicked her out into the open, knowing when the grenades exploded, her sister’s body would be a mess of broken bones and flesh, obliterating her hands and her finger prints.

But this gruesome escape plan had come apart at the seams. Lucia had made two fatal errors: she had failed to recognize me because she had never seen me, and the suitcase she had packed was so important to her, she had let her mask slip.

I forced myself to call, “It’s all right, Mrs. Hamel. I’m bringing it.”

The two interns closed around her. They and Palmer entered the elevator cage with her.

Nick handed down the suitcase.

“That’s it, Nick, and thanks. Don’t say a word to the press.”

“It’s been a ball,” Nick said, grinning. “Man! This is something to tell my grandchildren.”

I crossed over to the elevator, paused until he had taken off, then tried to open the suitcase. It was locked. Using the barrel of my gun, I forced open the locks.

Among the clothes, I found a .38 revolver, two hand grenades and a chequebook. Squatting on my haunches, I examined the chequebook. Every cheque in the book carried Nancy Hamel’s signature. Staring at the book, I realized the book was worth millions of dollars. I put it in my jacket pocket, then I hid the revolver and the grenades in the gutter, surrounding the roof. I carefully re-fixed the locks, then I took the elevator down to the penthouse floor. I found Mel Palmer, looking miffed, standing outside a door in the corridor.

“Mr. Anderson,” he said. “She wants her bag.”

“I bet she does,” I said.

“I don’t understand it” he went on, a plaintive whine in his voice. “She refuses medical care. She said she wanted to be alone. After all the trouble I have taken to arrange for her comfort! She actually pushed me out!”

That I could understand.

“I’ll give her the bag,” I said. “She has had a great shock. The best thing for her is to get some rest.”

“It’s nearly dawn!” he exclaimed. “I also need rest! I have commitments today! I am going home.”

“The best place, Mr. Palmer,” I said, giving him my sincere smile. “As soon as I have given Mrs. Hamel her bag, that’s where I’ll be heading.”

I watched him walk to the elevator, then I loosened my gun in its holster, then tapped on the door.

“Your bag, Mrs. Hamel,” I said.

The door jerked open.

The woman I was now sure was Lucia Pofferi stared at me. Her face had a boney, scraped look: her eyes were glittering.

“Put it down,” she said, taking a step back.

I moved forward and placed the bag just inside the room.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now leave me.”

With the heel of my shoe, I shoved the door shut. As I did so, I drew my gun and levelled it at her.

“Take it easy, baby,” I said. “Don’t try anything tricky.”

She cocked an eyebrow.

“So, who are you?”

“The name’s Bart Anderson.”

Watching her, I saw her eyes narrow. The nickel had dropped. Diaz must have told her my name: possibly Nancy also.

“Bart Anderson?” A thin, viperish smile touched her lips.

“Of course, the blackmailer. How did you get on the scene?”

“It’s my business. Let’s sit down, baby, we have much to talk about.”

She shrugged, then walked over to a big settee and sat down. She crossed her legs and leaned back, regarding me.

She looked as attractive as a coiled cobra. I took a chair well away from her and I kept the gun pointing at her.

“How does it feel to murder your sister?” I asked.

“That ninny? Why not? She was a useless birdbrain. Aldo agreed she should take my place. I am important to our movement. She was nothing.” Her eyes moved to the suitcase. “I see you’ve broken the locks. Did you get the chequebook?”

“I have it.” I smiled at her. “The hardware is up on the roof.”

She nodded.

“So let’s not waste time,” she said. “How much do you want?”

Still keeping her covered, I took out the chequebook and waved it at her.

“I’ll settle for a million. That leaves you plenty. Let’s work it this way: I keep the cheques. You stay here. I’ll write four cheques for two hundred and fifty thousand. When the loot has been transferred to my bank, I’ll give you the book. It’ll take a week or so. Then I’ll help you get away. There’s the yacht, baby. I’ll find a crewman and one dark night, you take off for Cuba. Like the idea?”

Her face remained a stony mask.

“Yes, I like it,” she said finally, “but suppose after you have had your payoff, you drop out of sight?”

“There’s that,” I said, giving her my boyish smile. “I guess you’ll have to trust me.”

She shook her head.

“I have a better idea. Take four of those cheques and give me the rest. I’ll stay here a week to give you time to get your share, then I’ll start cashing my cheques. Anything wrong in that?”

I once again began to dream of owning a million dollars, and when I begin to dream about money, I lose concentration.

“Fine with me,” I said, and did a fatal thing. I was sitting well away from her, so I put my gun on the arm of my chair and began to count out four cheques. While doing this, I took my eyes off her: another fatal mistake. Then as she moved, I dropped the chequebook and grabbed for my gun, but I was much too late.

She had a gun in her hand and was shooting before my fingers touched my gun. She must have had the gun hidden down the side of the settee.

I felt a thud against my chest, then saw the gun flash, then heard the bang, and that’s all I did see and hear.

My million dollar world exploded into darkness.

I wasn’t allowed to see any visitors for a week. I lay in a hospital bed, feeling sorry for myself and being attended to by a middle-aged nurse who was as sexy as a dead starfish. From time to time, the surgeon would come in and congratulate himself on saving my life. He had a laugh like a hyena: he looked like a hyena.

While I lay in bed, I did some thinking. It looked as if I was back on square 1, and once I was up and about again, I would have to begin my dreary life, working for the Agency. I asked the nurse what had happened. She said she didn’t know: just looking at her, I wasn’t surprised. She was the type who worked in her small circle and let the world go by. So I just lay there and wondered until my first visitor arrived: Lu Coldwell.

As he drew up a chair and sat down, he said, “You had a lucky escape, Bart. What happened?”

“I gave her her suitcase,” I said. “Then as I was leaving, she pulled a gun and shot me.”

“What the hell did she do that for?”

“You ask her. Don’t ask me.”

“The shot was heard. The hotel dick went up to investigate, and she shot him. Then she took the elevator down to the lobby and walked out, carrying the suitcase and the gun in her hand. You can imagine the commotion! A patrol car was passing, spotted her, carrying a gun, pulled up and she started shooting. They cut her down. She was dead on arrival.”

“She must have gone berserk,” I said.

“She was Lucia Pofferi. Nancy Hamel died at the ranch house.”

So it is over, I thought. No million, back to the treadmill.

“The way I figure it is this...” Coldwell said, and went on to tell me what I could have told him. I didn’t bother to listen.

When he was through, the nurse came in and said I should rest. Coldwell said he hoped I’d be around again soon and took himself off.

No one came near me for the next week. I led a lonely life. I hoped Bertha might at least send flowers: nothing from her. She was now probably married to her Fink and cruising somewhere in his yacht.

I was sitting up in a chair by the time I had my second visitor. It was Chick Barley. He came in, carrying a bottle of Cutty Sark.

“Hi, Bart! How are they hanging?”

I dredged up a brave smile and accepted the bottle.

“I’m making progress,” I said. “Good of you to come. No one else has bothered.”

“Yeah.” He began to wander around the room, and I could see he had something on his mind.

“Any news of Bertha?” I asked, hopefully.

“She got married. She’s gone off to Europe for the honeymoon. The guy she married is loaded with the green.”

I felt even more depressed. I watched Chick move around the room, hands in his pockets, a frown on his face. I felt sure he was full of bad news.

“What’s biting you, Chick?” I said. “Something on your mind?”

“Robertson’s Law Index,” he said, pausing in his prowling. “You have a copy... right?”

I gaped at him.

“Yeah. God knows why I bought it. I’ve never looked.”

“The Colonel left his copy at home, and started yelling for one. I remembered you had a copy, so I dug it out of your Scotch drawer and gave it to him.”

“Okay, so you gave it to him. So what?”

Then my heart gave a bound and I felt cold. I remembered I had put a copy of my blackmailing statement about Pofferi, the pirates’ island and the Alameda which I had hoped would screw a hundred thousand dollars out of Nancy Hamel in that book. The statement hadn’t been in an envelope! The Colonel would have read it! The Colonel was nobody’s fool. He would know I had been on the scene at the beginning, and why.

I saw Chick was regarding me.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “How was I to know? Glenda told me to tell you. Jesus, Bart! How could you have done such a goddamn thing?”

“Yeah.” Cold sweat was running down my back, “I am a dope. It looked good, Chick.”

He grimaced.

“Blackmail never looks good. Now, listen, the Colonel isn’t taking police action. He told Glenda if he did, the stink would smear the Agency’s image.”

I began to brighten.

“The Colonel’s smart.”

“Yeah, he’s smart, but Bart, he’s cancelled your licence, and he has put out the word. No one’s going to touch you. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.” He stuck out his hand. “So long, Bart, and the best of luck.”

When he had gone, I sat staring out of the window, down at the busy Paradise Avenue. I felt scared. Without a licence, I would now be way out on the unemployment limb.

Man! Was I depressed!

Later, the surgeon came in, grinning like a hyena. He said I could go home in a couple of days. I would have to take it easy, but in a month, I would be as good as new.

That I knew I wouldn’t be. Left alone, my mind was like a frightened squirrel in a cage. I had about two thousand dollars between me and the bread line. I had the hospital charges to meet. I would have to hunt for a job.

I stewed for two days and two nights, scarcely sleeping. I found no solution as to how I could earn the money I needed to live up to my standards.

Chick, my loyal pal, had sent over a suitcase of my clothes from my apartment, and he had parked the Maser outside the hospital. He also enclosed an envelope containing a fifty dollar bill with a note: For the last time. I’ll miss financing you, old pal.

I drove back to my apartment, feeling lower than a snake’s belly. I opened the front door, then paused. The big living room looked like a florist’s shop: flowers everywhere. There was a small banner stretched across the over-mantel that read: WELCOME BACK HOME, YOU HEEL.

I crossed the room and threw open my bedroom door. There was Bertha, naked as the back of my hand, lying seductively on my bed.

“You were shot, huh?” she said.

Was I glad to see her!

“I was shot.” I closed the door.

“Where?”

I grinned at her.

“Not where you think,” and I began to toss off my clothes.

Twenty minutes later, we lay side by side. Bertha kept running her fingers through my hair, making soft moaning noises. If that was her after-play, I went along with it, but already my mind was nibbling at my future.

“Bart, darling,” she said. “I am now sure I can’t go along with Theo.”

I patted her bare bottom.

“Theo?”

“My husband.”

“For God’s sake! Is that his name?”

“Theo Danrimpel: the fink with the millions.”

I sat up.

“You mean you married that guy! He’s as rich as Ford!”

She pushed me back, leaned over me and began to nibble my ear.

“I married him, honey, but you can’t imagine! I know you are a heel, but what a lovely heel! I need you. I can’t live with a fink who just sits and watches. A girl must have her own, intimate life.”

“That I can understand, but how would I fit in?”

“How would you like to live in Palm Springs, honey? Theo has a big estate. There is a gorgeous little cottage for you. Theo knows I need a boyfriend. He’s marvellously understanding. How about it?”

Suddenly the clouds lifted, the sky was blue again and the sun shone.

As a status symbol, a gigolo was way ahead of a blackmailer.

Me, Bertha and Theo were about to begin a beautiful, lush-plush partnership.

If I played my cards right (and Man! I was certainly going to play them right!) I was now not going to starve.