Goldfish Have No Hiding Place

3

With a knock on the door, Max Berry, my other researcher, came in. Max was a big husky, around thirty years of age with a rather flattened face, having been a keen boxer at his university. He wasn’t quite in the same class as Wally as a researcher, but he was good and as tenacious as a terrier after a rat. He dressed carelessly, wearing baggy, hairy suits and a red tie that always managed to work its way towards his left ear.

‘This is a hell of a thing about Wally,’ he said as he shut the door.

‘It certainly is. Sit down.’ I was still coping with the shock that Webber was no longer on my side. Quite why, I hadn’t time to think. My immediate reaction was his wife, Hilda, had also been robbing the Welcome store. That could be the only explanation: anyway as first thoughts.

‘I’ve just come from the hospital,’ Max went on, dropping into a chair. ‘Sweet grief! They certainly worked him over! How I wish it had been me! Poor Wally isn’t equipped for that kind of trouble. I’d have given those punks something to remember me by.’ He ran his fingers through his mop of black hair. ‘Any ideas, Steve? Do you think Hammond is behind this?’

‘Could be.’ And Hammond could be, but I was so close to the Welcome store, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. ‘I don’t know. It could be mugging.’

‘I don’t think so. Wally had a briefcase stuffed with trouble. He’s a cagey sonofagun. He came to me last night and we went over the Hammond estimates, but I got the idea, only half his mind was working on it. I have the feeling he was onto something else that’s now landed him in hospital. Did he confide in you?’

I moved my pen from right to left. Wally and I had always been close. I could trust him with any personal confidence, but I wasn’t sure about Max. He was like a bull that rushed in, tossed its horns and if anyone got caught it was just too bad so long as he got a sensational story. I could imagine his reaction if I told him what had been going on at the Welcome store. He would probably charge down there and try to bludgeon Gordy to talk.

‘You know Wally,’ I said cautiously. ‘He kept everything close to his chest. I think Hammond fixed him.’

‘That’s my thinking. We have nearly all the facts. Wally was after a photocopy of the contract Hammond signed. We talked about it last night. I offered to get it, but he said he would get it. He has better contacts than I have.’ He leaned forward, staring at me, his dark eyes somber. ‘I’ll get it now.’

‘You know this article about Schultz,’ I said. ‘It was Wally’s special thing. It’s all tied up and in proof. I’ve been thinking about it. Look, Max, what happened to Wally could happen to you and me. My thinking tells me that we should drop the Schultz article until we have handled Hammond. We could need police protection, and if we publish this article about Schultz that’s the last thing we’re going to get.’

He rubbed his flat nose with his thumb.

‘Police protection? How can they protect us?’

‘They can give us gun permits. Chandler could swing that.’

He grinned.

‘I don’t need a gun.’ And he looked down at his big hands now into fists.

‘Three toughs could take care of you, Max. You’re not Superman.’

He shrugged.

‘Okay. I’ll leave it to you. I’m going after Hammond.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll be in after lunch,’ and he left.

I looked across the smog and saw the lights were blazing in Chandler’s penthouse office. I hesitated for only a moment. This could be the means of relieving the pressure.

I called Chandler’s secretary.

‘Could I come over?’ I said. ‘I want an important word with Mr. Chandler.’

‘Hold it.’ A pause then she said, ‘If you will come right away. He’s due off for Washington in an hour.’

I got over there — you could call it dangerous driving — in five minutes.

Chandler was at his desk, a stuffed briefcase by his feet, a dust coat and his hat on a chair.

‘What is it, Steve?’ he said as I came in. ‘I’m just off. I’ve a session with the President. I could have something for you when I get back.’

Carefully choosing my words, I explained that in view of the attack on Wally, and because I thought the attack could have come via the City Hall with Hammond behind it, I thought we should hold back our attack on Schultz.

‘Once that article is printed, we will get no support from the police,’ I concluded. ‘Right now, we need their support if we’re to find out who was behind the attack. Also, Mr. Chandler, this could happen again. I can’t produce your magazine from a hospital bed. I want a pistol permit and one for Berry. This could turn into a fighting war. Unless Schultz cooperates, we could be in bad trouble.’

Chandler regarded mc from under his hooded lids.

‘Have you anything to replace the Schultz article?’

‘A mass of good stuff. I would run the facts on the new birth pill.’

A pause, then he nodded.

‘I hate letting that sonofabitch off the hook, but what you say makes sense. Okay, drop it from this issue. Maybe next month, huh?’

‘Yes.’

Again he regarded me.

‘So you think Hammond was behind this attack on Wally?’

‘It looks like it.’

His secretary put her head around the door.

‘Your car is waiting, Mr. Chandler.’

‘Tell Borg to fix pistol permits for Steve and Berry. Tell him to get them automatics.’ Chandler got to his feet.

‘We’ll talk this over when I get back.’ This to me.

I helped him on with his dustcoat. His secretary picked up his briefcase.

As we walked from his office, he asked, ‘How’s Linda?’

I wondered how he would react if I told him I had given her a black eye. Instead, I said, ‘She’s fine, thank you.’

We moved onto the long corridor.

‘I hear Webber had a break in last night,’ I said casually. ‘He has lost some files.’

The great man didn’t break his step.

‘Yeah... some nut.’ He glanced my way. ‘Something in it?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I thought it odd Webber didn’t call the police.’

‘The police? What use are they?’ I could see his thoughts were far away. He was probably rehearsing what he was going to say to the President.

He reached the block of elevators. A little man took the briefcase. He didn’t exactly drop on his hands and knees and bang his head on the floor, but he conveyed that impression.

‘See you, Steve.’ Chandler punched me lightly on my shoulder. ‘We’ll talk,’ and he strode into the elevator.

His secretary and I watched him and the little man descend out of sight. Then she gave me a curt nod and walked back to her office.

I went over to another elevator and thumbed the button.

As I entered my office, Jean was by my desk, sorting through the mail I had already read.

‘Hi, Jean! How’s Shirley?’

‘She’s making out. Wally is still in a coma, but they don’t seem worried about him. Shirley is back home. And Linda?’

‘She’s in good hands.’ I went around my desk and sat down. I looked at her. Standing near me, upright, a bunch of letters in her hand, she looked very capable. She was wearing a grey and white dress that suited her. Her dark hair was glossy. For the first time I noticed she was wearing a white gold watch with a white gold bracelet. I suddenly realised I was noticing things about her that were new to me: like her watch, the cut of her dress, the silkiness of her hair, like her calm, intelligent eyes.

A pause while we looked at each other, then she said, ‘Do you want to go through the mail now?’

‘I’ve been through it. There’s nothing you can’t handle.’ I hesitated, then said, ‘Sit down. The day’s started badly. Feel like listening?’

She put the letters on my desk and sat down.

‘Badly?’

I told her about Webber’s telephone call, that Mayhew couldn’t advance me more than five thousand. I told her about my brief talk with Lucilla Bower, that she had told me she had beaten Gordy down and had paid for the damaging strip of film. I went on to tell her I had persuaded Chandler to drop the Schultz article and to give Max and myself pistol permits.

She listened, her face tense.

‘Well, that’s it,’ I concluded. ‘The door looks shut. I can’t understand Webber. It could be his wife has been stealing and he is laying off Gordy. Chandler, of course, is too busy to bother. If Webber told him the files meant nothing and some nut broke in, why should Chandler think otherwise? But this really bothers me, Jean. I imagined I could rely on Webber. Now I can’t. It looks as if I’ve got to raise fifteen thousand dollars somehow to keep Linda out of this mess.’

‘Why not try to stall Gordy?’ Jean said quietly. ‘So far, you’ve gained time: gain some more time.’ She pointed to the telephone. ‘Call him and tell him you must have more time to pay. You could still come up with something that could fix him.’

‘Without Webber on my side, I can’t see how I can.’

‘Perhaps Gordy’s file is still Webber’s office. I could get at it.’

I stared at her.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I once did Mavis Sherman, his secretary, a great favour. She will do anything for me. Try to persuade Gordy to wait a couple of days.’

I picked up the receiver and asked Judy to get me Jesse Gordy of the Welcome Self-service store and then I hung up.

‘How did you help Mavis Sherman?’ I asked.

She shook her head.

‘That’s not your business, is it, Steve? So many people, these days, get into trouble. When I can help, I help.’ She lifted her hands and dropped them into her lap. ‘One day — who knows? — someone could help me.’

The telephone bell rang.

‘Mr. Gordy on the line, Mr. Manson,’ Judy told me.

‘Mr. Gordy?’

‘Yes, Mr. Manson. How are you?’ The sneer in his voice was unmistakable.

‘I will have to postpone our little transaction. In two days, there will be no problem, but right now there is a problem.’

‘Is that right? I too have problems. Let us discuss our joint problems tonight as arranged at nine o’clock. You remember the address: 189, Eastlake? A token could make me reasonable,’ and he hung up.

Jean had been listening in on the extension. We both faced each other as we replaced the receivers.

‘I’ll take Mavis to lunch,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘The birth pill article is in proof. I’ll get it down to the printers.’

The telephone bell rang. It was Marvin Goodyear who wrote our travel page. From then on until lunchtime I hadn’t a minute to think of my own problems. I had lunch with Jeremy Rafferty, our film and theatre critic. Not paying much attention, I half listened to him expound while we ate the businessman’s lunch. Every now and then, he would pause in his monologue — Jeremy was a non-stop talker — and regard me. Finally, he said, ‘I get the idea I’m not making an impact, Steve. Are you sickening for something?’

‘I’ve got Wally on my mind,’ I said, which wasn’t true.

He shook his head.

‘A terrible thing. Some muggers after drug money. It could happen to any of us. Now, look, suppose I do a piece about the danger of our streets, hooking it up with the violence of films?’

‘Sure. Send me an outline.’ I waved to the waiter for the bill.

‘Man! You sound as enthusiastic as a dowager of eighty offered sex.’

As I paid the bill, I said, ‘What do you know about the sex lives of eighty-year-old dowagers?’

He laughed, thanked me for the lunch and took himself off. I drove over to my bank and presented a cheque for three thousand dollars. The teller beamed at me, said how much he liked the last issue of The Voice of the People, then excused himself as he disappeared into Ernie Mayhew’s office. Ernie must have given him the green light for he came back and paid out three hundred crisp ten-dollar bills. I put them in my billfold and drove back to the office, wondering if three thousand dollars would be Gordy’s idea of a token payment.

Jean was still at lunch. I called the hospital and was told Wally was still in a coma. I then called Lucilla.

‘The poor darling is feeling very low,’ Lucilla drawled.

‘I don’t think it would be considerate to get her out of bed to talk to you. Her eye is quite bad.’

‘Then let us be considerate,’ I said and hung up.

Jean came in.

‘I think I’ve got it fixed. Unless Gordy’s file has been destroyed. Mavis will give us a photocopy. She says there was no breakin last night. As soon as Webber leaves, she’ll check the files.’

‘When does he leave?’

‘Around 19.00. Mavis has the keys. She’ll telephone me as soon as she gets it.’

‘If I can get it before I see Gordy, I could have a lever.’

‘If it’s there, you’ll get it.’

‘Thanks, Jean. I’ve got three thousand dollars for Gordy. I called the hospital.’

‘So did I and I talked to Shirley. She’s bearing up. She tells me Brenner has been to see her. She gave nothing away. Brenner now thinks it was a mugging.’

‘It could just possibly be.’

‘Well, to work. You have the leader to write, Steve. My desk is loaded.’

When she had gone, I pulled my IBM Executive towards me. The leader was about the dollar devaluation. I was in no mood to write sense, but somehow, after littering the floor with crumpled paper, I got something down on paper that did make sense.

The rest of the afternoon rushed away with telephone calls, three contributors with ideas, two bad, one good. While I was dictating to my Grundig, the intercom buzzed. I flicked down the switch.

‘Mr. Borg is here, Mr. Manson,’ Judy told me.

Joe Borg was Chandler’s dog-of-all-work. He handled anything that was tricky and I knew him to be a top-class man with a salary that made my thirty thousand a year peanuts. But he had a hell of a job that would have given me ulcers.

‘Send him in.’

Borg breezed in. He was short, thin, dark, around forty years of age. His eyes were like tiny black buttons and his mouth wore a perpetual grin.

‘Hi, Steve!’ He closed the door and coming to my desk, he put down a square carton. ‘Armaments for you and Max. There are pistol permits and two boxes of slugs.’ He eyed me. ‘Don’t go killing people, Steve.’

‘That’s quick work, Joe. Thanks.’

‘When the boss says so, it is so.’ Again he eyed me. ‘Watch it, buddy. Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.’ He screwed his face into a comical grimace. ‘Now who said that?’ He started for the door. ‘I’ve got a date with a hot piece of tail who cools fast if she’s kept waiting,’ and he was gone.

I took from the carton two .38 police automatics with shoulder holsters and two boxes of cartridges. The permits were made out in my name and Max’s name. I stood up, took off my jacket and put on the shoulder holster. I had been in the Vietnam war and I knew about guns. I checked the automatic, found it worked well, then loaded the gun. One thing I was determined about, it wouldn’t be my fault if I landed up in hospital.

I put the gun in the holster, stood away from my desk and did five experimental draws. The gun came from the holster each time smoothly and fast. Satisfied, I took off the holster and put the set-up in my desk drawer. Then I called Max at his home address. There was no answer. Max lived on his own. He was one of those men who didn’t want to be tied to one woman. He flirted around and was happy that way.

As I replaced the receiver, Jean came in.

‘Mavis has just telephoned... no luck. Gordy’s file has gone missing.’

I sat behind my desk.

‘Can you make sense of this, Jean? Webber told me he had a file on Gordy. Now this lie about a break-in: now no file.’

‘I can only guess. Either he is being blackmailed by Gordy or someone with influence has persuaded him to lay off.’

‘Who?’

She thought, frowning.

‘Who has been stealing from the store?’ she asked finally. ‘According to Wally, Sally Latimer, Mabel Creeden and Lucilla Bower. I don’t know any of these women. Do you?’

Mark Creeden immediately jumped into my mind. He owned the biggest house on the Eastlake estate. He was the President of the Howarth Production Corporation: a big wheel, the most important man on the estate. His wife, twenty years his junior, was inclined to act regally, as he did, and the women on the estate didn’t go for her, including Linda.

Creeden had enough pull and enough money to put Webber in his pocket. But why should he want Gordy’s file destroyed? What could be in it to cause a man like Creeden trouble? Thinking about it, I decided I liked Webber better for being anxious to keep Gordy under cover. It could be his wife, Hilda, had been stealing.

I lifted my hands and let them drop on my desk.

‘I’ll see Gordy tonight. Maybe I’ll get an angle.’ I looked at my watch. The time was 19.15. ‘Have dinner with me, Jean.’

‘Thank you, but I have things to do at home.’

I so badly wanted her company.

‘Oh, come on. Let’s go to Luigi again.’

She looked steadily at me, her dark eyes remote.

‘Don’t you think you should see your wife?’ There was a tiny emphasis oil the word ‘wife’ that wasn’t lost on me. ‘I’ll be home. Call me after you have seen Gordy,’ and she was gone.

She was right, of course. I had no claim on her, married as I was to Linda.

I waited until I heard her leave the office, then after a moment’s hesitation, I put on the shoulder holster, again checked the gun, turned off the lights, locked up and went down to the Eat’s bar across the street for a lonely, depressing dinner.

It was 20.10 as I walked over to my car. I planned to drive home, see if there was any mail, get out the plan of the estate and locate Gordy’s house, then go and see him.

‘Hi, Steve!’

I turned.

Harry Mitchell was leaning out of the window of his Jaguar. He was two or three years older than myself: a big, rangy man with a pleasantly ugly face. He was a top class golfer and popular at the Country club.

I crossed over to his car.

‘Sorry about Linda’s mother. Is she bad?’

For a moment I didn’t know what he was talking about, then I remembered I had told Ernie Mayhew the reason why I wanted money fast was because Linda’s mother needed an emergency operation. Ernie must have told his wife and she had passed on the news.

‘Not so good.’

‘Pam has been trying to get Linda. We guessed she’s upped and left you to look after her mother.’

‘That’s it. She shouldn’t be too long.’

‘Can’t have you being lonely, Steve. Come and join us tonight.’

‘Thanks, Harry, but this gives me the chance to catch up with my backlog.’

He grinned.

‘That’s something I never get the chance of doing. If Pam’s mother got ill and Pam had to go off, I guess I’d finally clear my desk.’ He laughed. ‘The old trout hasn’t been ill for fifty years. Why not look in anyway?’

‘I won’t, Harry.’

‘Got over the flu?’

‘Sure: short and sharp.’

‘When you call Linda, give her our love. How’s about tomorrow night?’

‘Let’s see how it goes, huh?’

‘Sure. You’re doing a fine job on that mag. Even I read it.’ He waved and drove away.

I drove home. Cissy had been in. She had cleared up the kitchen and flicked dust around. I found the afternoon mail on the table. Most of the mail was for Linda who loved writing letters.

I decided it was an excuse to go over to Lucilla’s place. I still had time before I saw Gordy. I dug out the plan of the estate. Gordy’s house was tucked away at the end of East Avenue. I decided I would walk there. There was no point in anyone seeing my car outside his place.

I found wearing the gun uncomfortable so I took it off and dropped the gun and the harness on the settee. Then I drove over to Lucilla’s place. She opened the door.

‘Surprise... surprise: here’s the wife beater,’ she said with a cynical smile.

‘I want a word with Linda.’

‘She’s in the living room. I’m cooking dinner: sorry I can’t invite you: there’s only enough for two. Go ahead, Steve,’ and she went away.

I walked into the living room. Linda, in a nightdress and wrap she had borrowed from Lucilla, reclined on the settee. Her eye was bandaged. She regarded me stonily with her other eye.

‘Here are some letters for you.’ I dropped the letters by her side. ‘To try to raise the blackmail money I told Mayhew I needed money fast because your mother had to have an emergency operation. The news has spread as it always does on this goddam estate. Right now, you’re supposed to be with your mother in Dallas.’

‘Must you have dragged mother into this?’ Her voice was shrill.

‘I’m seeing Gordy tonight. I have only been able to raise three thousand dollars. He’ll want more, of course, but he might just wait. If he won’t wait, I am going to sell your car and the jewellery I’ve given you and anything else we have that could fetch money.’

Her one eye flashed and her mouth turned into a thin line.

‘You don’t touch my car nor my jewellery! They belong to me!’

I looked down at her. I couldn’t understand how I had ever been in love with her.

‘I’ll see you after I have talked to him. We can then decide. You may, of course, prefer to go to prison.’

As I started towards the door, she said viciously, ‘I hope that Kesey bitch is taking care of you.’

‘Don’t make yourself more hateful than you already are,’ I said and went back to my car.

As I reached my house, I saw a car parked outside.

‘Hi, Steve! I was wondering where you had got to.’

Frank Latimer came out of the shadows as I pulled up.

Latimer was a successful insurance broker. He was around forty years of age, balding, potbellied but good fun.

‘I heard the news about Linda’s mum and I thought, as I was passing, I’ll see if you felt like joining us for dinner. Sally has been on a shopping spree so we’re eating late.’

‘Thanks, Frank. I’ve already eaten. I’ve got a whale of a lot of work to do.’

‘Yeah... I can imagine. That mag of yours is just dandy. Well, I thought I’d stop by. If there’s anything we can do...’

‘It’s all under control. Linda will be back soon and Cissy is looking after me.’

‘You know where we are if you want us.’

When he had driven away, I put my car in the garage. According to Wally’s report which Jean had told me about, Sally, Frank’s wife, had been stealing. I wondered if Gordy had put the bite on him and if he was going to pay or had paid.

I looked at my watch. The time was 20.50: time I went to see Gordy. I locked up the garage, then walked down the avenue, passing the lighted windows of my neighbours, hearing the sound of television sets and wondering how Gordy would react when I offered him only three thousand dollars.

Turning to my right brought me to East Avenue. According to the plan of the estate, Gordy’s house was some two hundred yards at the far end.

I quickened my pace. The avenue housed the cheaper villas on the estate and was not all that well lit. I came suddenly on a figure who emerged from the shadows, a spaniel dog at his heels. I recognised Mark Creeden: a tall, heavily built man in his early sixties.

Creeden was regarded by those living in Eastlake as the Czar of the estate. He was nearly as wealthy as Chandler and his house, I knew, cost four times the amount I had paid for mine. He ran a Rolls Corniche and his wife, Mabel, a Bentley T. Although both of them were a little regal, they entertained so lavishly, they were popular, but not really liked.

He stopped and peered at me. His over-red face creased into his wide, rather patronising grin.

‘Hello, Steve! What are you doing out here?’

‘Taking a walk to solve a problem,’ I said, wishing I hadn’t run into him.

‘Nothing like a walk to solve a problem. I’m exercising the dog. Mabel buys him and I have to do all the work.’ He laughed his jolly laugh: the sort of laugh ambassadors use to get a party going. ‘When are you two nice people coming to see us?’

‘I guess when we are invited. Right now, Linda is in Dallas. Her mother is sick.’

‘Is that right? I’m sorry. There’s a lot of illness around. So you are on your own?’

‘Gives me a chance to catch up with my work.’

‘That’s a fine magazine you’re producing, Steve. I read every word. I won’t keep you. I’ll get Mabel to give you a call. We should see more of you both.’ More ambassador’s talk. He bent to pat the spaniel. I thought it was a pity there were no press photographers to register the scene. ‘Bye now, Steve.’ He waved his hand as if leaving on a train and walked on.

I stared after him.

A coincidence?

First, Frank Latimer: now Mark Creeden. According to Wally, both these men’s wives had been stealing from the Welcome store.

I wondered if Creeden had just left Gordy. Had he paid blackmail money to buy a strip of damaging film?

I moved on. I had some trouble finding Gordy’s small two-storey house. It was well off the road. About two hundred yards from the rear of the house was the goods entrance to the Welcome store. The big store was in darkness, but there was a light showing through the yellow curtains of the lower room of Gordy’s house. The rest of the house was in darkness.

I walked up the path, lined by straggly rose bushes. I pressed the bell. Chimes sounded, then died away.

I was sweating slightly and my hands felt cold and clammy. My heart was beating with an uneven thump-thump-thump. I knew I was doing a crazy thing to come here and pay money to a blackmailer, but the alternative of going to the police, even though the article on Schultz had been shelved, was too dangerous for Linda: too dangerous for me too. This stupid, greedy thieving could leak back to Chandler, and then there would be a full stop to my career.

There was no answer to my ring, so I rang again. I looked down the short, dark path, uneasy that someone could be watching me.

When again there was no answer, I hesitated, then put my hand on the door handle, turned and gently pushed. The door swung open. I stood there, looking into a small lobby. The light coming from the living room — the door was ajar — showed me a coat rack on which hung a shabby dustcoat and a shabbier hat.

Anxious not to be seen by any passerby, I moved into the lobby and closed the front door.

I wondered if Gordy lived alone. I wondered if he had a wife and if she knew he was a blackmailer.

‘Gordy?’

I slightly raised my voice and waited.

I heard the sound of a refrigerator start up, but otherwise there was silence.

‘Gordy?’

I moved to the door, tapped, then pushed it wide open. How often have I read of this scene in books and seen it on television?

The shabby room with its fading, sun-bleached wallpaper, the ugly furniture, well used and much travelled, the cheap, well-worn rugs. There were two poor reproductions of Van Gogh’s landscapes on the wall and a few tattered paperbacks huddled together on a shelf. A TV set, a half-empty bottle of scotch and on the overmantel, a French doll with black fuzz glued to her crotch. The trappings of a home, but not much of a home.

But the centrepiece of this sad, sordid room, held me. Jesse Gordy sat facing me. His hands lay on the arms of the shabby chair. The front of his blue shirt and his shabby grey jacket were red with blood. At his feet was more blood: a small puddle in which one of his shoes rested.

His lips were drawn back, showing his yellow rat-like teeth in a snarl of hate and fear. His eyes glared at me: dead eyes, but still hating.

Paralysed with horror, I stared at him. Then the sound of the telephone bell made me stiffen. I looked around, my breathing quick and light. The telephone stood on a table by the dead man.

I stood there, listening to the bell until it finally stopped ringing.

Then in a panic, I started to leave. My immediate thought was to get away, but as I reached the front door, my shock began to recede and my mind began to function.

I paused.

Gordy had been murdered. Someone had either shot or stabbed him. Was that someone a man or a woman Gordy had been blackmailing? Was the film still in the house or had this someone taken it? If the police found the film, both Linda and I would have no future as we knew it now.

Shouldn’t I search the house and try to find the film? If the film was found, every wife, photographed stealing, would be investigated by the police. She and her husband would be checked to see if she or he could have murdered Gordy.

Standing there, my mind racing, I suddenly realised that I could be suspect Number one. If questioned, Creeden would say he had met me going towards Gordy’s house. I had the motive.

Creeden?

I thought of him as he had come down East Avenue, his spaniel at his heels. He could have killed Gordy. Yes, he fitted. He was big business and ruthless in spite of his ambassador’s smile. Rather than let his wife be prosecuted for theft he would have thought nothing of killing a creep like Gordy.

Dare I stay and search the house? Suppose someone came and caught me? The film could be anywhere: cunningly hidden. It could take me hours to search the house.

As I started for the front door, I again paused.

Gordy had been expecting me. Wouldn’t he have the snippet of film ready? Why should I care about the rest of the film? It was worth the risk to see if I could find the bit of film that involved Linda, but as I forced myself to turn back to the living room, I heard a car pull up outside the house.

I whirled around and dashed up the stairs, reaching the upper landing as the front door bell rang. I leaned against the banister rail, looking down into the half lit lobby, my heart hammering.

The bells chimed, then I hear the door push open.

‘Jesse?’ A woman’s voice.

I peered over the rail and caught a glimpse of a woman who moved so swiftly into the living room I only got an impression of her: small, dark, wearing something dark. I heard her catch her breath, then her scream set my teeth on edge.

‘Jesse!’

Slowly, silently, I began to descend the stairs.

‘God!’

I heard her dialling. She could only be calling the police.

I was now in the lobby.

‘It’s murder!’ Her voice was shrill and hysterical. ‘Send someone!’

I reached the door, moved silently into the warm darkness. I heard her screaming, ‘189, East Avenue! It’s murder!’

I was ready to run, but instinct warned me. I paused long enough to whip out my handkerchief and wipe the front door handle, the only thing I had touched in the house, then I moved down the path and once on the road, I began to run.

I reached my house, breathless. I had met no one. It was television peak time and everyone, unless throwing a party, was indoors.

With a shaky hand, I got out my front door key and sank it into the lock. It wouldn’t turn. I tried again, then pulling out the key, I turned the door handle and the door opened. It passed through my mind, as I entered the dark lobby, that I had forgotten to lock up.

As I closed the front door, I heard the sound of a police siren and saw the lights of a patrol car through the window, storming past and towards East Avenue.