Hit Them Where it Hurts

Three

I found Solly Lewis on the top floor of a shabby block in a small room that pretended to be an office: a battered desk, a still more battered filing cabinet and a typewriter, standing on a small table that told me he did his own typing.

He was sitting behind the desk with a thin file before him. He regarded me coolly, then got to his feet. He was of average height, around 35 years of age, with thick black hair and a beard that nearly obscured his face. His clothes had done much service, and he was painfully thin as if he had only one square meal a week.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, and offered his hand.

I shook his hand, then taking out my wallet, I gave him my professional card. He waved me to the only other chair. It looked so elderly I was nervous lowering my weight onto it.

He sat down and studied my card, then looked up at me, his black eyes lighting up.

‘Well, Mr Wallace, I’m glad to meet you,’ he said. ‘Of course, I know all about your agency. What can I do for you?’

‘I understand you are acting for the late Miss Angus.’

I saw him stiffen.

‘That is correct. I am her executor.’

‘Does the name Terrance Thorsen or Terry Zeigler mean anything to you?’

He nodded.

‘Terry Zeigler. Yes, of course.’

‘I am trying to find him. As Miss Angus and he were friendly I hoped she could have told me where he is, but it seems she is unfortunately dead, so it occurred to me that you might remember her mentioning him to you.’

Lewis pulled at his beard as he regarded me.

‘Why do you want to find him?’

‘The Acme Agency has been hired to find him. I haven’t been told who the client is. I’ve just been told to find him.’

‘Then you and I seem to have the same problem,’ Lewis said, relaxing in his chair. ‘Miss Angus left all her money and effects to Zeigler. I can’t clear up her estate until I have found Zeigler, and up to now, I have not been successful.’

‘But I understand Miss Angus lived in rather a depressed state. She cleaned for Zeigler. How come she would have anything to leave him in her will?’

‘Her estate is worth a hundred thousand dollars, clear of tax,’ Lewis said, not hiding the wistful note in his voice. ‘Miss Angus was eccentric. She never spent her money. She hoarded it. I finally convinced her she should not keep all this money in envelopes, hidden in her home, and persuaded her to put this money in a bank. I am glad to say she did this.’

‘She must have been a real character. You are sure she did put the money in the bank?’

‘Oh, yes. I have checked. She deposited the money with the Pacific & National Bank four days before she was murdered. I am in touch with Mr Ackland, the general manager there. It is now a matter of locating Zeigler.’

‘What have you done to find him?’

He gave a weary smile.

‘The usual things: advertising, the police, the Missing Person’s Bureau. I have done the best I can, but, up to now, and it’s two months ago, I haven’t been able to trace Zeigler.’ He leaned forward and looked hopefully at me. ‘But now you are also looking for him, this gives me hope. If you can’t find him, who can?’

‘Suppose he’s dead? What happens to the money?’

‘If he died after Miss Angus it would go to his next of kin. But I have to be sure he is dead.’

Another blind alley.

I got back to my office by taxi. Thankful for the air conditioner, I sat at my desk and typed my report. I had just finished when Bill came in, mopping his face.

‘Hell!’ he moaned, dropping into his chair. ‘It’s awful outside.’

‘What have you got for me?’

‘Good hunch of yours. A big black buck came out, got into a white Caddy and took off. I followed him to the Black Cassette. He got out and went in, then a young black came out and took the Caddy away.’

‘Tell me about the big black.’

Bill grimaced.

‘A real tough, and make no mistake about that. He stands around six foot six: a small head on shoulders a yard wide. He was wearing a sweatshirt and I could see his muscles, like oranges, rippling. He moved like a dancer. He had hands like hams. He looked as dangerous as a cobra. That’s it, Dirk. I didn’t need to enquire if he was Hank Smedley.’

I looked at my watch. It was close on two hours since I had talked to Dolly Gilbert. It was time to see her again. I gave Bill my report.

‘See you, Bill. Stick around,’ and leaving him, I rode down to the street, got in my car and headed for the Breakers.

I had only to thumb her bell push when the door jerked open, and there she was, giving me the usual whore’s smile of welcome.

‘Come on in, gorgeous,’ she said. ‘Sorry about the delay, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles.’

I entered the big living room as she closed the door.

‘Look, honey,’ she said, ‘I’m a little pressed for time. Let’s have my present — fifty bucks, and let’s go into action. Right?’

I walked by her into the bedroom, looked into the kitchen, then the tiny bathroom, then satisfied we were alone, I returned to the bedroom where she was standing by the bed, regarding me uneasily.

‘You scared of something, mister?’ she asked.

‘No. I want to talk to you, Dolly.’ Taking her by her arm, I led her back into the living room. ‘Sorry, baby, but this isn’t your kind of business.’ I gave her my professional card, then sat down in a shabby but comfortable chair.

She stared for some moments at the card, then she walked up to me and thrust the card at me. She said in a harsh voice, ‘On your way, Buster! Get the hell out of here!’

‘I am looking for information,’ I said, giving her my friendly smile. ‘It pays a hundred bucks. Now don’t tell me you’re not interested in a hundred bucks.’

She stared, then held out her hand.

‘Let’s see the money.’

I took out my wallet, found a hundred-dollar bill, showed it to her, then folded and palmed it.

‘Do we talk?’

She sat down in a chair near mine. Her wrap came apart. She was naked, but her body didn’t appeal to me. OK, she was slim, with good-looking breasts, a flat tummy and dark pubic hair, but she was shop-soiled: not surprising by the way she lived.

‘Talk about what?’

I put my card back in my wallet.

‘I’m looking for Terry Zeigler.’

Her eyes became alert.

‘What makes you think I know anything about Terry?’

‘I don’t. I’m looking for him. I was told you moved into this pad within a couple of hours of him moving out. I thought he might have tipped you off this pad was coming vacant, and you might know where I can find him.’

‘Is it straight that I get that money?’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘Brother! Can I use money right now!’

‘Give out, and you get it. Did he tip you he was leaving?’

‘No, but I heard pretty smart. I have friends here and there, though I never got along with Terry.’

To help her to become more out-giving, I unfolded the hundred-dollar bill, regarded it, then refolded it.

‘You don’t know where I can find Terry Zeigler?’

‘Is he in trouble? He kinda left in a hurry. Scared maybe?’

‘I’d say not. Someone has left him money, and it’s my job to find him and give him the money.’

Her eyes widened.

‘How much?’

‘I wouldn’t know. It’s not peanuts.’ I smiled at her. ‘Do you or don’t you know where I can find Terry?’

She shook her head.

‘No, Buster. I don’t know. Imagine that odd guy coming into money! Oh, how I wish someone would leave me some money!’

Was this going to be another dead-end, I wondered.

‘What makes you say Terry is an odd guy?’

‘I only met him a couple of times. He never opened his mouth. He just stared at me as if I was something he had stepped in on the sidewalk. He certainly played a hot piano. If you ask me, I guess he was either crazy or doped.’

‘Do you think he’s a junkie, Dolly?’

‘How the hell do I know? Most of the finks around here are on the needle. That’s something I leave alone. I’ve got to earn money.’

I leaned forward and gave her the hundred-dollar bill.

‘Well, thanks. You’ve been helpful,’ I said. ‘There is one more thing. Does Hank Smedley often visit you?’

She reared back as if I had hit her, then jumped to her feet. Her face was the colour of a soiled sheet.

‘Get out!’ she screamed. ‘I’ve had enough of you! Get out.’

In my twenty-odd years as an operator, I have seen frightened faces, but none so frightened as this trembling, wretched little whore. Frightened? No, rather terrified.

I left her clutching the bill, shaking; I knew there was nothing more I could get from her.

I rode down in the creaking elevator and walked to where I had parked my car.

Back in my office, I found Bill at his desk, chewing gum and rereading my report.

I told him what I had got from Dolly.

‘Look, Dirk, I’m not with you. Why the interest in Terry Thorsen? We’re supposed to...’

‘Sure,’ I broke in, ‘but we have no real leads. I have a hunch that Terry could put us right. I want to find him and talk to him.’

‘Shouldn’t we concentrate on Hank Smedley?’

‘I want to find Terry first.’

He shrugged.

‘Well, OK, you’re the boss. So now what?’

‘For you, home, and forget all this. For me, I’m adding to my report, then home and early to bed. Alone.’

‘You OK, Dirk?’

‘Go home!’ and I waved him away.

As I opened the front door that had been fitted with two new locks, the keys to which I found in my mailbox, a smell of fresh paint greeted me. The graffiti had been painted over, and my home was back to normal.

What a girl! I thought, as I shut and locked the door. I telephoned the Bellevue Hotel only to be told that Suzy was handling an insurge of tourists and wouldn’t be available for at least two hours, so I couldn’t even thank her.

The following morning, I was at my desk early. I was just finishing my report when Bill came in.

‘Sleep well?’ he asked, but he knew better than to expect an answer.

‘I want you to trace an Olds. PC10001. I want it fast, and in depth.’

‘Right.’

He took off. Bill had now almost as many contacts in the city as I had, and very usefully he was a buddy with the officer in charge of car registration.

I finished my report, filed it, then went along to Glenda Kerry’s office. She had just come in and was going through the mail.

‘Hi, Glenda!’ I said. ‘The Thorsen case.’

She sat back.

‘What’s new?’

I gave her a synopsis of what I had learned, and concluded, ‘Angela Thorsen seems to be paying money to someone in this Black Cassette. Whether it is Hank Smedley or someone else, I haven’t found out. I can’t see a way of finding out without talking to Angela. I’m not crazy about doing that. Terry would be useful if I could find him. This case, if we’re going to get a satisfactory report, could take time.’

‘We are charging Mrs Thorsen three thousand a day. You had better see her, report to her, and ask her if she wants to go on. Maybe she won’t. Get her reaction, Dirk.’

That made sense to me, so I returned to my office. As the time was 10.20, I phoned the Thorsens’ residence.

I recognised Smedley’s slurred voice.

‘Mrs Thorsen, please,’ I said. ‘Mr Wallace.’

‘The detective gentleman?’ Smedley asked, after a pause.

‘That is correct.’

‘Mrs Thorsen is out. She won’t be returning until late this afternoon.’

I thanked him, then hung up. After a couple of minutes’ thought, an idea struck me. I immediately acted on it. Scribbling a note for Bill and leaving it on his desk, I went down to my car and drove to the Thorsens’ residence. With Mrs Thorsen out of the way I would have the opportunity for a talk with Josh Smedley.

I had a six-minute wait and tugged the bell chain three times, before the front door opened.

‘Sorry, Mr Wallace,’ he muttered. ‘Mrs Thorsen is out.’

‘So you told me.’ Using my beef, I moved forward and entered the lobby. ‘I need to talk to you, Josh.’

He gave way. He had no alternative. When I was in the lobby, he reluctantly closed the front door.

‘Excuse me, Mr Wallace, I am busy,’ he said in a quavering voice.

‘Let’s go to your den,’ I said, taking a firm grip of his arm. ‘I’ve a few questions to ask.’

He stared at me uneasily for a few moments, then he moved down the long corridor and finally came to a good-sized room with four armchairs, a bed, closets and another door I guessed led to a bathroom. Smedley was certainly living in comparative luxury.

‘Let’s have a drink, Josh,’ I said. ‘Scotch for me.’

He hesitated, then moved to a closet, produced a bottle of Cutty Sark poured two generous drinks into glasses and replaced the bottle. Over his shoulder, I saw a neat row of empty Cutty Sark bottles on the top shelves of the closet.

With a shaky hand he handed me one glass, then holding tightly to his glass, he lowered himself into a chair near mine.

‘What do you want to know, Mr Wallace?’ he asked, and as if to give himself support, he took a gulp from his glass.

‘Mrs Thorsen has hired me, Josh, to find out if, why and by whom her daughter is being blackmailed. I guess you know this?’

He nodded.

‘You know everything that goes on here, don’t you, Josh?’

‘I’ve worked for Mr and Mrs Thorsen for over thirty years,’ he said carefully.

‘I would like you to tell me what kind of man Mr Thorsen was. This is confidential, Josh, but it is important.’

‘Mr Thorsen is dead.’

‘I know that. What kind of man was he?’

‘Mr Thorsen was a hard man,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘I guess he had to be to get to his position. He drove me hard, but he paid well. Yes, Mr Thorsen was a hard man.’

‘He was hard on his children?’

‘Mr Terry, yes, but not Miss Angela. He wanted Mr Terry to go into his business. He had no patience with Mr Terry’s piano playing. Yes. He was very hard on Mr Terry. Finally, Mr Terry walk out. I was pleased.’ He gazed into space, his wrinkled face lighting up with a smile. ‘It was a very unhappy place here until Mr Terry left. After that, the place was all right until Mr Thorsen died. Then there was an upset. Miss Angela and her mother didn’t get on, so Miss Angela left to live in the cottage, and as my wife didn’t get on with me, she went to look after Miss Angela.’

‘You must have seen the two children grow up from babies,’ I said. ‘How did you react to Terry?’

Smedley stared gloomily at his empty glass.

‘Mr Terry was a good boy, Mr Wallace. He and I got along fine together. He would often come into this room and talk with me. He was interested in my past and my parents. It made him sad that my wife and I didn’t get along together. He told me he couldn’t put up with his father any longer. As soon as Mr Thorsen went off to his office, Mr Terry would go up to the music room and play and play. He was a natural genius. He couldn’t read music. He had only to hear a tune and he could play it. His father wouldn’t allow him to take lessons, but he didn’t want lessons. He just played. When he left, that was some two years ago, he came to me, took my hand and said goodbye. I was so upset, I just gripped his hand, and when he had gone, I cried.’

‘That glass looks empty, Josh,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong with a refill?’

He scrambled to his feet and lurched to the closet.

‘How about you, Mr Wallace?’

‘I’m fine.’

He came back to his chair, nursing another big Scotch.

‘How about Miss Angela?’ I asked. ‘How did you get along with her?’

‘When she was a kid, Mr Wallace, we got along fine, but when she began to grow up, she became difficult. She got to dislike me. I guess my wife put in the poison. No, I guess Miss Angela and me didn’t get along.’

‘Did she get along with her brother?’

He nodded.

‘They were very close. Oh, yes. I liked to see them together. When he left home, she changed. It was as if the sun had gone out of her life. Then when Mr Thorsen died, she moved into the cottage and my wife went with her. I don’t see her anymore.’ He drank and sighed, and I could see the sadness on his shrivelled face.

‘Mr Thorsen died suddenly, a year ago?’

‘Yes, but not unexpected.’

‘How’s that, Josh?’

‘He was a strong-living man. Very — hot, fierce. Too much for his weak heart. He had been warned by his doctor many times. But he had to have his own way all the time.’

‘Did that make it difficult for you?’

‘Not me. I knew him, over all those years, but some people...’

‘Some people upset him easily?’

‘Surely.’

‘Did he quarrel with them?’

‘Not quarrelling, because he had business to do with them. He was very clever with money, those folks’ money.’

‘But he often lost his temper with them?’

‘Yes. With them, with me, even with...’

‘Even Miss Angie?’

‘Well, just that once, about Mr Terry.’

‘When was that, Josh?’

‘That day...’ He reached for another gulp at his drink.

‘Did you hear them quarrelling? Miss Angie raise her voice at him?’

‘I don’t listen to all that. It’s just voices at me. I did hear her say Mr Terry’s name, quite loud. Then she went out.’

‘Did you tell the coroner that?’

‘He never asked, and it was family talk, purely family talk.’

‘I am looking for Terry. It’s important that I find him. Can you tell me where he is?’

Smedley shook his head.

‘I wish I could, Mr Wallace. I would so much like to see him again and talk with him. I haven’t heard from him since he walked out.’

‘I’ll tell you why it is important that I get in contact with him. An old lady has left him one hundred thousand dollars. She was a Miss Angus and she was murdered. The money can’t come to him until I can contact him. One hundred thousand dollars, Josh.’

I waited, watching him.

‘The old lady was murdered?’ he asked, staring at me.

‘Yes. The killer must have found out that she kept all this money in her apartment at the Breakers where Terry lived. The killer was looking for the money, but he was too late. It is now in a bank, and waiting for Terry to claim it.’

‘I just don’t know where he is, Mr Wallace.’

I got to my feet and moved to the door.

‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘You have a son, Hank, who runs the Black Cassette Disco. Correct?’

He shrivelled back in his chair.

‘That is right, Mr Wallace,’ he said in a low, quavering voice.

‘When I first came here and Mrs Thorsen hired me, you telephoned your son, telling him about me, didn’t you?’

He remained silent, closing his eyes, his drink trembling in his hand.

‘Didn’t you?’ I barked, using my cop voice.

‘I talk to my son every day,’ he muttered.

‘You told him about me?’

‘My son is interested in what goes on here,’ he said after a long pause.

‘OK, Josh,’ I said, not taking it further. I had the answer. Smedley had tipped his son that I had been hired to watch Angela, and Hank had immediately given me a warning, spoiling my wall, and taking it further to underline the message, had sapped me.

I let myself out and Smedley seemed hardly to notice.

Back in my office, I found my note to Bill still on his desk. I sat at my desk and made a report of my talk with Josh Smedley. By the time I had finished it was 13.15, and I was hungry. As I was putting my report in the Thorsen file, Bill came in. I could see by his excited expression he had news.

‘Let’s eat, Bill,’ I said, getting to my feet.

‘Great! I could eat an elephant!’

Without further talk, we went down to a restaurant that was close by, just around the corner from the Trueman building.

We ordered breaded lamb chops and french fries: the special for the day. We both had beers. The service was fast. We had scarcely time to settle ourselves when two plates arrived with two enormous lamb chops and a mountain of french fries. The lamb chops were as tender as an old man’s leg, but we were hungry, so we chewed.

‘What’s new, Bill?’ I asked as I sawed at my meat.

‘The Olds is now registered in the name of Hank Smedley. Transferred to him some three months ago. How do you like that?’

‘I like it,’ I said and ate some of the crisp potatoes.

‘And...?’

‘Plenty,’ Bill said. ‘I got Hank’s address, 56 Seagrove Road, Seacombe. I went along and look a look. Hank has a pad on the top floor. The place is nice and with style. I then went along to the cop house and talked to Tom Lepski. I told him we were interested in Hank Smedley. As he had nothing to do, he gave out. The cops know all about Hank. Lepski dug out his file. Hank’s been in trouble since the age of twelve. D.J. Three times in a reform. Stealing, violence, beating up kids: a real hellion. Then suddenly he appears to have turned respectable. For the past year, the cops have nothing on him. He runs this disco. Every so often Lepski walks in, but it’s all respectable. Yet Lepski said he has a hunch that something is going on there, but he doesn’t know what. He itches to raid the place, but can’t get a search warrant. That’s about it, Dirk.’

‘Nice work,’ I said.

As we chewed I told him what I had learned from Josh Smedley, which didn’t seem to add up to much, but left a doubt or two, a whiff of a scent we would have to pick up somewhere.

While Bill was thumping out his report, I read through every word in the Thorsen file. The time now was 16.15. I wondered if Mrs Thorsen was back home. No harm in trying, I thought, and taking it slow, I drove to the Thorsens’ residence.

The humid drizzle had stopped and the sun had come out. I was in luck. As I walked up the drive, leaving my car parked outside the villa’s gates, I saw her drinking tea, under the shelter of a garden awning.

As I approached she regarded me with a cold, haughty stare.

‘I was under the impression, Mr Wallace, that I told you to telephone before you came here.’

‘I did. You were out. So here I am.’

There was a chair near hers so I sat down.

‘Well?’ She put down her half-finished cup of tea and continued to stare at me.

‘I have been instructed by my people to report progress to you and ask if you wish the investigation to go further.’

She stiffened.

‘What progress?’

‘You hired me to find out if your daughter is being blackmailed and, if so, by whom,’ I said carefully. ‘I saw your daughter collect the money from the bank. I followed her to a slum quarter of the waterfront. She left her car and entered the Black Cassette Disco. She remained there for ten minutes or so, then left without the money.’

Mrs Thorsen sat as if turned to stone.

‘The Black Cassette? What is that?’ Her voice was harsh.

‘It is an all-black nightclub. No whites are allowed.’

‘Yet you say my daughter went in there?’

‘Obviously she was paying someone in the club the ten thousand dollars. That doesn’t mean she associates with blacks, Mrs Thorsen.’

‘Then what does it mean?’

‘For all I know she may be contributing to a black fund; helping certain blacks who are living rough. I don’t know. But I do know that this club is owned by Hank Smedley, the son of your butler.’

Once again she turned to stone. I had to admire her. I could see how shocked she was, but her self-control couldn’t be faulted.

She sat for three long minutes, staring down at her beautiful hands.

‘Hank Smedley,’ she finally muttered, not looking at me. ‘Yes, of course. He used to help in the garden. I noticed my daughter and he were getting too friendly. He used to play with her. This was Angela’s growing-up period. She liked to romp and be stupid, and Hank, who was ten years older than she, encouraged her. I complained to my husband. He got rid of Hank. For a time Angela seemed to miss him.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘So it would seem that she still meets him, and now gives him money. How dreadful!’

‘It looks like that, but it may not be so.’

‘I must talk to my butler about this!’ Her voice turned savage and she glared at me.

‘It would be better, Mrs Thorsen, for you first to talk to your daughter.’

‘To Angela?’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘She wouldn’t tell me anything. I really believe she hates me.’

‘There are complications, Mrs Thorsen. I haven’t been wasting your money,’ I said. ‘If you want me to go further with this, then it is up to you. Just tell me, and my agency will either close the case or continue it.’

‘What complications?’

I certainly wasn’t going to bring her son onto the scene at this stage.

‘Hank is dangerous, Mrs Thorsen,’ I said. ‘I would like to find out what is going on in his club. The police have tried, but have got nowhere. If I can find enough evidence of wrongdoing, I want to put this man behind bars. This is now up to you.’

There was a cruel, hard look on her gaunt lace as she said, ‘Nothing would please me more than to know that useless scum is in prison! Very well! I don’t care how much it costs! Continue the investigation!’

‘I will do that, but only on one condition, Mrs Thorsen,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘I ask you to say nothing about this to your daughter nor to your butler. Is that understood!’

‘I leave it to you to put that animal behind bars!’ she said, and the viciousness in her voice was startling. ‘I leave it to you, and you take the responsibility!’

On that note, I left her.