Goldfish Have No Hiding Place

9

As the cab drove me to the Imperial hotel, I nursed my aching neck with both hands and reviewed the situation.

When Webber’s men realised I had sold them a dummy — and it wouldn’t take long — they would come after me. I realised that I was out of their class, so I needed police protection. I had it without asking for it! As soon as Taylor and O’Hara picked me up they would stay with me, and I had no intention now of losing them. With them watching me, Webber’s men wouldn’t risk moving in on me.

Still unsteady on my legs, I paid off the cabby and walked to where I had left my car. I saw the blue Mustang was parked five bays from mine. Taylor was sitting at the wheel. There was no sign of O’Hara.

I got in my car and drove to my apartment. From time to time I checked my driving mirror. The Mustang was following. I drove into the underground garage, then took the elevator to my apartment.

As the cage arrived at my floor, I took out the gun and held it down by my side. I couldn’t be sure Webber’s men had found out they had no film and had already arrived.

I stepped from the cage onto the corridor, looked to right and left, saw nothing to alarm me, stepped across to my front door, unlocked it, moved into the lobby, shut the door and switched on the light. I then pushed open the living room door, stood back as I reached for the light switch and snapped it up. No one there. I paused to lock the front door and shoot the bolt, then moving carefully, I explored the apartment. They hadn’t arrived.

For the moment I was safe. Short of battering down the door, no one could get in.

I put the gun on the table and crossed over to the liquor cabinet. I poured myself a stiff shot of whisky and dropped into a lounging chair.

I thought about what had happened. The question that baffled me was why Webber was involved. Until Brenner had alerted me, I had no reason to suspect that Webber’s men were shadowing me. How long had they been doing this? My mind shifted to Creeden. He had enough money to hire Webber. If his wife was on the film, then he would need help and Webber would be the man to hire.

I finished my drink, set down the glass and got to my feet.

I was sure the key to all this was on the film that Max had, but did he have it? Had Webber guessed what I had done and had sent his men after Charlie?

I dialled Max’s number.

The time now was 03.15.

There was a long delay, then Max mumbled, ‘Who the hell is this?’

‘Steve. Did you get it? Answer yes or no... nothing else.’

‘For the sake of Judas! Yes!’

I hung up.

I went into the lonely bedroom, stripped off my clothes and flopped on the bed. My neck was aching, my body limp and exhausted. I lay like that, my mind churning, until finally sleep came.

The following morning, with the Mustang following me, I drove to my office. I felt secure with these two cops tailing me. They would give Webber’s men no room to manoeuvre.

Judy greeted me with a smile.

‘Jean says she’ll be in after lunch, Mr. Manson. She still sounds pretty bad. Miss Shelley is here and waiting.’

‘Thanks, Judy.’

I dealt with the mail, then when Miss Shelley, a dumpy, serious-looking girl who dwelt behind enormous glasses, had gone into Jean’s office to type, I called Freddie Dunmore.

‘Freddie... I didn’t make it last night. I want that projector. Will you send it over?’

‘Sure, Steve.’

‘Wrap it. I don’t want anyone here to know it’s a projector.’

A pause, then he said, ‘James Bond stuff, huh?’

‘That’s the idea. Make a parcel of it and get it over here fast.’

‘Will and can do,’ and he hung up.

I then called Max Berry.

‘Bring that envelope over right away, Max. Put it under your jacket. As I told you, it’s dynamite.’

‘Okay, Steve. I’m on my way.’

There was nothing else I could do now but to hope. Although I hadn’t the time to spare, I told Judy to call Jean for me.

While I was wrestling with a heap of mail, the call came through.

‘Jean! How do you feel?’

‘I’m all right. I told Judy to tell you I’ll be in after lunch. I’m still a bit queasy, but I’ll survive.’

‘Don’t come in unless you’re really fit.’

‘I’m coming in.’

I couldn’t resist it.

‘I’ve missed you.’

‘Thank you. I’ll be in,’ and the line went dead.

My old man had told me to hang on. I wasn’t getting any encouragement, but I loved her, I wanted her, I needed her, so I was going to hang on.

I settled down to read Rafferty’s film column that had come in the mail. I was only half concentrating. Suddenly, I got up, went to the window and looked down on the street. This time it was O’Hara who was propping up the fire hydrant. The sight of him was reassuring. As long as he was there I couldn’t imagine Webber’s men visiting me. Taylor was probably covering the lobby.

The intercom buzzed.

‘There’s a parcel for you, Mr. Manson,’ Judy told me. ‘Shall I bring it in?’

‘Thanks.’

It was the projector, carefully wrapped. A note from Freddie saying he enclosed the instruction book and if I was in trouble to call him.

I put the projector in a closet and finished the Rafferty article. I okayed it and tossed it in my out-tray. As I was starting to read a short story submitted by one of my agents, Max Berry came in.

‘Here it is,’ he said, putting the envelope on my desk. ‘What’s the big excitement about, Steve? You got me out of bed twice last night. What’s all this about dynamite?’

‘No comment, Max, for the moment,’ I said. ‘Thanks for bringing it. How’s the Linsky article building?’

He gaped at me.

‘For Pete’s sake, is that all you’re going to say?’

‘That’s all. How’s the Linsky article building?’

‘I’ll have it finished tomorrow.’ He eyed the envelope, looked questioningly at me, then said, ‘Well, if that’s all, I’ll get back to it.’

‘Do that and thanks again.’

Looking mystified, he left me.

I stared at the envelope, then looked at my desk clock. The time was close to midday. In another quarter of an hour, Judy would be going to lunch and I would have the office to myself. I put the envelope in my desk drawer, then tried to settle to reading the short story but concentration was impossible. I was sweating and my heart was thumping. In a few minutes now I could know the truth unless Freda had sold me a pup. There was always that chance, but thinking back, seeing her serious eyes, hearing her say, “Boy scout’s honour” I felt sure this was the film now in my desk drawer that had caused her and Gordy’s death.

The minutes dragged by. I wanted to get up and tell Judy to go, but I restrained myself.

It wasn’t until 12.20 that she looked in.

‘All right for me to go to lunch, Mr. Manson?’

‘Sure.’

She nodded brightly and I heard her go off to the rest room. At 12.30 I heard her leave. I went to the outer door and locked it. I had only an hour before she returned. Then hurrying back to my office I got out the projector and set it on my desk. Opposite was a blank white wall. My hands were unsteady as I ripped open the envelope and took out the cassette. It was a self-loading job, but even at that I spent a few minutes before I got it loaded. I pulled out the plug of my electric desk clock and connected up the projector. Then I lowered the sun blinds and pulled the curtains.

As I returned to my desk, the telephone bell rang.

The sound made my heart skip a beat. For a long moment, I hesitated, then I lifted the receiver.

‘Mr. Manson? Mr. Chandler on the line.’

Sweat dripped off my chin.

‘Steve? Come over and have lunch with me. I’ve got some real poison that will fix Linsky. I want to discuss it with you.’

I sat staring at the projector.

‘You there, Steve? Come right ever. We’ll have a working lunch here.’

Trying to steady my voice, I said, ‘I can’t make it, Mr. Chandler. Jean’s away sick and Judy’s just gone to lunch.’

‘Well, lock up! The office won’t run away. Come on over!’ and he hung up.

That was something I was not going to do. I switched on the projector, moving the focusing ring as a picture appeared on the white wall. I found myself looking down one of the aisles, packed either side with groceries, of the Welcome store.

It was an excellent picture. I could even read the labels on some of the cans. There were no customers, which puzzled me. After a few moments the scanner shifted and I caught a glimpse of a suspended clock. The time showed 09.03. The store had just opened. Now the picture showed where you got hard liquor. Then from around a corner, pushing a market cart, came a woman. As she walked, she was looking over her shoulder as if to make sure no one was watching her. She paused by the whisky section, then looked fully into the lens of the hidden scanner.

My heart skipped a beat and I heard myself gasp.

The woman was Jean!

My hand turned into fists and my nails dug into my palms.

She was looking down the aisle, her expression expectant. Seldom do you see that expression but I had seen it before and I recognised it. It was the look of a lover, waiting for a lover.

Then a man moved into the picture: tall, heavily built, wearing a black hat and a city suit. There was something horribly familiar about his broad back. He caught Jean in his arms and she flung her arms around his neck. They kissed the way only starved lovers kiss.

So brief, and yet to me it was like a knife thrust in my heart. Then he moved back, giving her a warning sign, and I saw his face.

It was Henry Chandler!

The telephone bell rang.

With a shaking hand I turned off the projector, then lifted the receiver.

‘Mr. Manson?’ I recognised Chandler’s secretary’s sharp voice. ‘Mr. Chandler is waiting.’

‘Tell him I am held up.’

‘He won’t like that, Mr. Manson.’

‘I’m sorry,’ and I replaced the receiver. I ran the film back into the cassette, took it off the projector, removed the plug, then moving like an automaton, I put the projector into my closet, the cassette in my pocket and pulled up the blinds. As I did so, the telephone bell rang again.

It was Chandler and there was an angry rasp in his voice.

‘What’s going on? I’m waiting. You’re holding up my lunch!’

I found myself hating him. The thought of eating with him, even looking at him, knowing Jean loved him, revolted me.

‘I have a client with me, Mr. Chandler,’ I said woodenly. ‘I can’t get away.’

‘Who is it?’ he barked.

‘Mr. Coulston, the advertising executive for Hartmans.’

Hartmans was one of our most important advertisers.

A pause, then Chandler said irritably, ‘Well, all right. Why didn’t you say so? Okay, I’ll send the stuff about Linsky over right away. I’m booked solid this afternoon. You read it and come to my place for dinner. We’ll discuss it, huh?’

‘I’ll read it and telephone you, Mr. Chandler. I have a long-standing date for tonight,’ and not giving a damn, I hung up.

I stared at the blank white wall which only a few minutes ago had shown me Jean and Chandler embracing.

She and he! That they were lovers was obvious. I had only to remember the expression of love and longing on Jean’s face to know that was a fact. How Gordy must have rubbed his hands when he had run off the film.

Henry Chandler, the leading citizen, the leading Quaker who had built the city’s church! Chandler, who owned the magazine who threw stones at people! Chandler who had amassed two hundred million dollars and was on first name terms with the President caught on a film in a self-service store (of all places) kissing a girl who had been his fourth secretary! No wonder Gordy had told Freda the film was worth a million dollars. If it became public property, Chandler was finished!

Sitting there, still shaking, I remembered his words when I accepted his offer to edit The Voice of the People. Those words now burned into my brain: You will be attacking the corrupt and the dishonest.

Remember you will be a goldfish in a bowl. Be careful: don’t give anyone a chance to hit back at you. Take me: I’m a Quaker. I believe in God. My private life can’t be criticised. No finger can point to me and no one must be able to point a finger at you.

You hypocrite! I thought. You bloody, bloody hypocrite! You set yourself up as the second God to be a scourge of the corrupt and the dishonest and you’re even worse than any of them because, behind your sanctimonious facade, you are a liar, an adulterer and a cheat!

I was shaking with rage and my body was cold. I wanted to ruin him. I wanted to expose him for what he was. I could do it! I could get Dunmore to blow up one of the frames and I could put the blow-up on the cover of The Voice of the People. I wouldn’t even have to write a commentary. That picture alone would bring him and his empire crashing down!

My searing thoughts were disturbed by the sound of knocking. I controlled mv rage, looked at my watch and saw it was 13.02. I walked unsteadily into the outer office and unlocked the door.

Judy came in.

‘Did you have lunch, Mr. Manson?’ she asked as she put her handbag on the desk. ‘I’ll get you a sandwich if you like.’

The thought of food revolted me.

‘It’s okay. I’m busy,’ and I went back to my office and shut the door.

I sat at my desk. Judy with her freshness and youth had broken the thread of my rage. I began to think rationally. If it hadn’t been Jean, who I loved, but for the sake of argument, it had been Judy on that film, would I have reacted the way I had been reacting? I knew at once that I wouldn’t have. It was because this rich, Quaker hypocrite had taken Jean from me that I had been in this revengeful rage. If it had been any other woman except Jean I would have been surprised, shrugged my shoulders and have destroyed the film.

I picked up my paperknife and began to dig holes in my blotter.

A man and a woman meet, I thought. Some kind of chemistry takes place and suddenly they are in love. Are either of them to blame? It had taken months for me suddenly to realise Jean was the woman I wanted: my chemistry had been diluted by Linda. Chandler had been ahead of me. When this chemistry explosion happens and when you are in a vulnerable position of a goldfish in a Quaker bowl, what are you to do? It would depend, I told myself, how big the explosion had been. If it was merely a sudden sex urge, then it should be resisted, but if it was real love...?

Chandler couldn’t ask for a divorce. Lois was the kind of woman who would fight tooth and nail to hold onto what she had. He would have to make the reason known and this would bring him down. So he was faced with meeting Jean in sneaky places like the Welcome store and God knows what other places for a hurried kiss.

So to keep his sanctimonious reputation, two worthless people had been murdered. Who had killed them? Certainly not Chandler. When you had unlimited money as Chandler had there was no problem to hire a professional gunman. Borg did all Chandler’s dirty work. He could easily hire some killer to walk into Gordy’s house and shoot him.

I paused in my thinking and realised I was letting my imagination run away with me.

Gordy and Freda had been shot with my gun. A professional killer would have used his own gun! So it was unlikely that those two had been killed by a hired gunman.

Then who?

I pressed my hands against my hot face.

Why should I care? I asked myself. Why should I care if a blackmailer and a drunken hustler died?

But I did care that Jean was Chandler’s mistress. The shock was still with me. She had said she was coming to the office this afternoon. I felt in no state to face her. If she came, I knew I couldn’t stay in the office. I had to have time to adjust.

I asked Judy for an outside line, then called Jean’s number. She answered almost at once.

‘This is Steve,’ I said. ‘Please don’t come in today, Jean.’

‘But I’m just on my way.’ Her voice sounded low and unsteady.

‘Please stay at home. There is nothing for you to do. Come in tomorrow.’

A long pause, then she said, ‘Well, all right.’

I put down the receiver as Judy came in with a sealed envelope from Chandler.

‘Jean won’t be in until tomorrow,’ I told her.

‘I’m not surprised. I once had clam poisoning and it nearly killed me.’

When she had left me, I tossed the envelope into my in-tray. The Voice of the People was now such a symbol of hypocrisy to me I had no further interest in it.

I pulled my IBM towards me and wrote the following letter:

I put the note in an envelope, marked it ‘Private and Personal,’ sealed it, then asked Judy to have it sent over to the Chandler building by special delivery.

‘I’m not taking any telephone calls nor seeing any visitors, Judy,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed. Say I am out and won’t be back until tomorrow.’

Her eyes popped open wide.

‘Well, okay, Mr. Manson.’

‘That includes Mr. Chandler. If he calls, I’m still out.’

I went back to my office and locked the door.

I spent the next two hours clearing my desk and putting all the material, the notes, the sketched ideas for the next issue of the magazine together.

I heard Judy answering the telephone from time to time. I wondered what would happen to her. My own future didn’t worry me. I had money in the bank, I was free of Linda and I could return to Los Angeles where I could become a freelance.

Finally, around 18.00, I had completed the clearing up. Everything was in order. One of the bright boys on the California Times could pick up where I had left off, but that didn’t mean The Voice of the People would survive. I hoped it wouldn’t.

Carrying my bulging briefcase, I went into the outer office.

Poor Judy looked bothered.

‘Oh, Mr. Manson, Mr. Chandler has twice called asking for you.’

‘That’s all right, Judy. Don’t worry about a thing. You get off home.’ I smiled at her. ‘Will you lock up? I’m through for the day.’

The telephone bell rang. Judy picked up the receiver as I opened the outer door.

‘Mr. Manson!’ she hissed. ‘It’s Mr. Chandler.’

‘I’m still out,’ I said and crossing the corridor, I rode the elevator down for the last time and with no regrets.

As I drove towards my apartment, I began to make plans. There was a midnight plane to Los Angeles. I would pack and get out. Once back on my old home ground I was sure I would be able to adjust myself. The loose ends like the apartment lease, my personal things could be tied up later, but this city was now suffocating me. I had to have four or five days away from it.

Looking in my driving mirror, I spotted the blue Mustang following me. I didn’t give a damn. I wondered how the cops would react when they followed me to the airport and watched me board a plane for LA. They couldn’t stop me. They wouldn’t know I wasn’t on an assignment for the magazine.

I left the Merc in the parking bay and went up to my apartment, imagining Taylor and O’Hara settling down to a long and dreary wait.

I unlocked my front door and walked into the lobby. The door leading to the living room was half open and I saw the lights were on. I was still carrying Max’s gun. Dropping my briefcase, I got the gun into my hand, then kicked the door wide open and stood in the doorway.

I was expecting to be faced by Webber’s men, but instead, facing me, looking a ghost of herself, was Jean.

Slowly, I lowered the gun.

As I stared at her, the thought came into my mind — the same thought that had come into my mind when I put the bottle of Chanel No. 5 in front of Linda — was this the woman I was in love with?

I continued to look at her and as I looked the fragile light of love flickered and went out. I was facing a stranger: white faced, gaunt, hard and perhaps even dangerous.

My eyes moved from her and I looked around the room. It had been wrecked. Every possible hiding place had been explored with frantic frenzy. Even the cushions in the chairs and the settee had been ripped open. The stuffing, like little white islands, lay on the floor. Every drawer had been emptied: its contents thrown anyhow.

I tossed my gun on the ripped settee and walked into the bedroom. That too was wrecked. Even the mattress had been slit open. My clothes lay on the floor. Every drawer had been emptied and its contents spilled everywhere.

I returned to the living room. She still stood motionless, pressed against the wall, her eyes like two red hot embers.

‘Joe Borg will love this,’ I said quietly. ‘He’ll probably sue you.’

‘Where is it?’ she said, her voice husky.

I regarded her, then I knew and I felt a cold chill run over me.

‘Is that how you looked when you shot Gordy?’ I asked. ‘Did you say that to him... where is it? Is that how you looked when you shot that stupid, drunken hooker?’

She lifted her right hand and I saw she had a gun.

‘Tell me or I’ll kill you! Where is it?’

I looked at the gun... my gun. That story about putting the gun in a sack of rubbish! She had kept it and had killed again with it! Looking at her, I was sure she was now mentally unbalanced and yet I had no fear of her. I was just sick that I had lost her, that my stupid dreams that she would get bored with this other man and then she and I could come together were finished.

I took the film cassette from my pocket and held it out to her.

‘Here it is, Jean,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you confide in me?’

She remained motionless, the gun pointing at me, then slowly her wild eyes moved from me to the cassette. She caught her breath in a retching sob.

‘Really?’

‘Freda Hawes sold it to me for fifteen hundred dollars,’ I said. ‘Here it is, Jean... take it.’

The gun dropped from her hand. She came forward and snatched the cassette and held it against her face, then she fell on her knees. She began to moan softly like a small animal in agony.

I picked up the gun and tossed it by Max’s gun on the settee. My legs felt unsteady and my head was beginning to ache. I was so very sick of all this. I sat on the arm of a ruined armchair and watched her, cradling the cassette and muttering to herself. This, I thought, must be a proof of love and I wished Chandler was here to see her.

Minutes ticked away. I just sat there, waiting.

Finally she stopped moaning and muttering.

‘I’ll get you a drink,’ I said and went to the liquor cabinet and poured a stiff brandy.

She was now on her feet, clutching the cassette, her eyes less wild.

‘I don’t want it!’

‘Drink it!’

The glass chattered against her teeth, but she drank the brandy. She shuddered as she set down the glass.

‘This really is the film?’ she asked huskily.

‘That’s it. You and Chandler. I’m leaving the city. If you’ll go now, I’ll be able to get on with my packing.’

She dropped onto one of the slashed cushions.

‘I love him. He is the perfect man. Ever since I began to work for him, I loved him. I would do anything for him. I have done everything for him.’ She stared at me. ‘You wouldn’t know what real love means. So few people do: to make sacrifices, to do anything for the person you love.’ She pressed her hands against her face. ‘The moment I met him I fell in love with him. It took longer for him to love me. He is such a fine, splendid man. We knew our love for each other had to be kept secret and yet we yearned for each other. It became too dangerous for me to work with him. There were so many prying eyes and we knew if we worked together we would give ourselves away. So he sent me to work for you. Yet we had to meet.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Those awful, furtive places: a movie house when I had to search for him in the dark, taxi rides that were dangerous, dreadful little bars and then the Welcome store.’ Her voice faltered. ‘We thought we were so clever going to the Welcome store early, but we didn’t know about the camera.’ She lifted her shoulders helplessly. ‘There was nothing more. Only the touch of his lips, the feel of his hands... that was all.’

Listening to all this sickened me.

‘Please stop,’ I said. ‘You have the film. Please go away. I have packing to do.’

‘I want to confess.’ Her eyes became red embers again. ‘I have so much to confess. Gordy came to me. He hadn’t the guts to go to Henry. He told me about the film. His price was a million dollars. Sneering at me, he said Henry and I were in good company, and he mentioned these other women’s names I told you Wally had given me. Wally knew nothing about the Welcome store. I lied when I told you he had been researching. How else could I gain your confidence? I needed as much information as I could get. The attack on Wally was nothing to do with Gordy. It was mugging. I realised I had to have help so I went to Webber. Without Henry, Webber is nothing and he knows it. He is the only one who knows Henry and I love each other. He knew this woman Hawes was close to Gordy. He went to her apartment when she was out and found the blow-ups which he destroyed as he destroyed Gordy’s file so you shouldn’t have it. In the file was Gordy’s past record. He had served ten years for blackmail. I was scared if you knew this you might scare Gordy into talking about Henry and me.’ She rubbed her hand across her forehead. ‘With the blow-ups destroyed, I had to get the film. I needed a gun. I planned to frighten Gordy into giving me the film. I knew you had a gun and I followed you home, watched you leave, found the front door unlocked, and got the gun. I drove to Gordy’s house. I threatened him and he laughed at me so I shot him.’ She paused to look around the wrecked room, her face a wooden mask. ‘It was a crazy thing to have done because I hadn’t the film. I realised the police might be able to prove I had killed him and that would involve Henry.’ She looked directly at me. ‘So I decided to make you responsible for Gordy’s death. You mean nothing to me. You never have. I know you think you are in love with me.’ Her face twitched in a grimace of disgust. ‘To me that is an obscene joke. Compare yourself with Henry and you will see why. It seemed easy. I had your gun. Webber’s men never let you out of their sight. They got the reel of tape which would incriminate you. They also got the film when you found it, showing your wife stealing. You can’t imagine how I suffered when I discovered there had to be a second film. That police lieutenant is dangerous. I decided to kill you.’ She paused and shuddered, looking away from me. ‘Please, try to understand that all this was driving me out of my mind. I have duplicate keys to all Borg’s apartments. I came here the other night with the tape, the film and the gun. You were asleep. I planned to shoot you, leaving the tape, the film and the gun by your side. I was sure the police would think you had killed yourself. I stood over you, the gun at your head, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. I stayed by you for a long time, but something stopped me, so in despair, I went away and I destroyed the tape and the film. Webber told me you had met this Hawes woman. I went to her place and met her as she was returning home. She had an overnight bag and I felt sure she had the film in it. I shot her.’ Her face twisted as if she had suffered a pang of pain. ‘God forgive me! She was so arrogant. She spat at me... so I shot her. There was no film. So I came here... my last hope. I hunted and hunted and searched and searched. Now I have it.’ Her face went to pieces and she began to sob. ‘The joke against me is that Henry knows nothing... nothing... nothing about all this. He has no idea, and he never will, what I have done for him... what I have done to protect him. He is living in that lovely house with that stupid, snob, horrible bitch and he imagines I am happy because he sneaks away twice a week to give me a kiss and to touch my hands.’

I got to my feet and wandered around the wrecked room. Listening to her sobbing made no impact on me. I just wanted to get away.

‘This is something you will have to live with, Jean,’ I said. ‘How you work it out, is your affair. I’m sorry you think my love for you is an obscene joke. Will you please go now?’

She stiffened and choked back her sobs.

‘Yes, of course.’ She got unsteadily to her feet. ‘You could never understand.’ She clutched the cassette in her hand. ‘You don’t know what love means.’

I wanted to be rid of her. Maybe she was right. Maybe I didn’t know what love meant, but if it meant the death of two people, no matter how worthless, I didn’t want to know.

I walked to the door and opened it.

‘Goodbye, Jean.’

She moved forward, then paused, looking at me.

‘Will you do something for me?’

‘If I can.’

She held out the cassette.

‘Will you destroy it, please?’

‘That’s your business, Jean.’

‘Please... do it for me.’

‘All right.’ I took the cassette and dropped it into my pocket. She moved slowly by me and out into the corridor. She turned and looked at me.

‘Thank you. Goodbye, Steve.’

I regarded her. How odd, I thought, that this woman had at one time seemed to me the only woman for me. I looked at her haggard, white face and the misery in her eyes and I was looking at a stranger.

‘Goodbye.’

I was glad to shut the door and see the last of her. After wandering around the wrecked room for some minutes, I went to the telephone and called Borg. When he came on the line, I said, ‘I have had burglars in here, Joe. The place is completely wrecked. I’m leaving for Los Angeles in an hour. Will you handle it?’

‘Have you called the police?’

‘I haven’t the time to tangle with the police. You do that.’

‘Hell! I’ll get Jean to handle it.’

‘I would handle it myself if I were you,’ I said and hung up.

I packed two suitcases, then I picked up the gun that had shot Gordy and Freda and went down to the basement. I dropped the gun in the rubbish tip which was constantly smothered with refuse and I dropped the cassette into the furnace. I returned to the apartment, picked up my bags and rode down in the elevator to my car.

I had more than two hours before my plane to Los Angeles took off. I drove slowly to the airport, aware the blue Mustang was following me. Leaving the car at the airport garage, I checked my bags in, then went into the bar. I didn’t feel like eating. I sat in a corner, nursing a whisky on the rocks and thought about Jean. I thought about what she had told me and I longed to be in the aircraft, flying away from this city.

Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, my flight number was called and I walked across the tarmac to the waiting plane. I embarked, sat, smoked and tried to consider my future. My thoughts kept being interrupted by the picture of Chandler and Jean standing in the aisle of the Welcome store. That picture, I knew, was going to haunt me for a long time.

On arrival, I collected my bags and started across the lobby in search of a cab.

‘Mr. Manson?’

I looked around at a tall, lean man who was smiling at me.

‘I’m Terry Rogers of the Hollywood Reporter.’ His smile broadened into a grin. ‘The grapevine told me you were on the plane. Mr. Manson, is it correct that you have resigned as editor of The Voice of the People?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Was there a difference of opinion between you and Mr. Chandler?’

‘No. I decided the editorial chair isn’t for me.’ I began to move away from him. ‘Sorry about your secretary.’

I paused and eyed him.

‘My secretary?’

‘Miss Jean Kesey. She was your secretary, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes. What about her?’

‘Came over the tape about ten minutes ago. She walked under a truck.’

I felt no reaction. It had to end that way.

‘Did she?’

‘When he heard, Mr. Chandler said it was a very sad loss for the magazine. Have you any comment, Mr. Manson?’

‘All of us have to die sometime — even goldfish,’ I said and left him, staring after me.