Hit Them Where it Hurts

Four

I sat in my car outside the Thorsens’ residence, listening to the steady rain drumming on the roof of my car. I turned over in my mind the conversation I had had with Mrs Thorsen. At least she had given the agency the green light to go ahead with the investigation. As it was costing her, I decided she must get value for money.

I drove slowly along the high wall that encircled the estate. As I expected, I came on a narrow lane to my right, and I drove up it, still seeing the high wall. I hoped this lane would lead directly to the cottage where Angela Thorsen lived, and I was right.

Leaving the car on the wet grass verge and struggling into my mac, I walked up the short tarmac drive until I saw the cottage: small, probably three bedrooms and a big living room. Standing before the cottage was Angela’s beat-up, rusty Beetle car.

I arrived at the front door. There was no porch. As I pressed the bell, the rain dripped down on me.

The door jerked open. I was confronted by a large black woman who looked big enough, tough enough and strong enough to give Larry Holmes a workout.

She looked me up and down, then demanded in a harsh voice, ‘What do you want, mister?’

‘Miss Angela Thorsen,’ I said, staring directly at her.

‘On your way, mister. Miss Angela doesn’t see strangers. Beat it!’

I had my professional card ready and I poked it at her.

‘She’ll see me,’ I said in my cop voice. ‘Let’s have some action! I’m getting wet!’

She read the card, stared at me, then snapped, ‘Wait!’ and slammed the door.

So this was Hanna Smedley. I felt sorry for Josh. No wonder he had taken to the bottle. I stood there in the rain and waited.

Five minutes crawled by. By then, I was exasperated. I put my finger on the bell push and leaned on it. That produced some action. The door jerked open, and Mrs Smedley glared at me.

‘Well, come in! Take that mac off. I don’t want the place sopping wet.’

I took off my mac and hat and dropped them in a puddle of rain on the floor of the lobby.

She opened a door and waved me in, so I entered a large living room, comfortably furnished with lounging chairs and a big TV set.

I took this in with a quick glance, then turned my attention to the girl who was sitting in a lounging chair, looking enquiringly at me.

Angela Thorsen wasn’t wearing her sun goggles or her concealing hat. The dim light from the rain-filled sky fell directly on her.

I was startled. When I had asked her mother if Angela had boyfriends, I remembered her exact words: ‘Most unlikely. I can’t imagine any decent boy being interested in Angela. As I have said, she is not attractive.’

Mother’s jealousy?

I looked at this girl. She reminded me of Audrey Hepburn when she first appeared on the screen: the same classical features, the dark hair, the serious, dark brown eyes. OK, she had a starvation body, but shift your eyes to her face, you found sexual attraction.

‘Excuse me for intruding, Miss Thorsen,’ I said. ‘I am hoping you can help me.’

She smiled and waved me to a chair.

‘I hope I can, Mr Wallace. Please sit down. Would you like tea or coffee?’

‘No thanks.’ I sat down.

‘You are a private detective?’ I saw she was holding my card.

‘That’s correct, Miss Thorsen.’

‘It must be an exciting life. I often read thrillers about private detectives.’

‘A private detective’s life is far from thrilling except in books, Miss Thorsen,’ I said. ‘Most of my time is spent sitting in cars or talking to people who don’t cooperate.’

Again she smiled.

‘So you have come to me. Please, tell me why.’

‘I have been hired to find your brother.’ I was watching her, but her smile didn’t slip. She just looked interested.

‘My brother? Terry?’

‘That’s right. An old lady has left him money, and unless he is found, the money remains in the bank. I have been hired to find him.’

‘An old lady has left Terry money?’

‘Yes, Miss Thorsen.’

‘How nice of her. Who is she?’

I put on my mournful look.

‘That’s why my job is so dull,’ I said. ‘My boss just tells me to find Terry Thorsen as he has been left money by an old lady. He doesn’t tell me her name, but he did tell me she has left your brother one hundred thousand dollars. So I am making enquiries.’

She leaned forward.

‘Did you say one hundred thousand dollars?’

‘That’s correct, Miss Thorsen.’

She sat back and gave me her guileless smile.

‘How nice.’

‘Wonderful for him,’ I said, ‘but I still have to find him. Can you help me?’

‘I wish I could. I haven’t seen my brother for months.’

‘He hasn’t written to you or telephoned you?’

‘No.’ Her smile was replaced by a sad expression. ‘It grieves me, Mr Wallace. At one time, my brother and I were close.’

I couldn’t decide if she was telling me the truth, but if not, she was lying with impressive expertise.

‘Perhaps you know of a friend of his who would give me a lead,’ I suggested.

Sadly, she shook her head.

‘I don’t know any of his friends.’

‘I guess you know he was playing the piano at the Dead End club, then suddenly left.’

Her eyes opened a trifle in what could have been surprise.

‘No, I didn’t know that.’

‘So you can give me no help?’

‘I wish I could. I have your card. If I do hear from Terry, I will telephone you.’

I got to my feet.

‘I’d be glad if you would do that. It’s a shame. There’s this large amount of money in the bank, and your brother isn’t aware it is his.’

She nodded, then got to her feet.

‘It is a shame.’

Then I produced the question that would tell me if she was an expert liar or was speaking the truth.

Watching her closely, I said, ‘Do you happen to know where I can locate Hank Smedley?’

If I hadn’t been watching her so closely, I would have missed the slight flicker of her eyes, and the slight tightening of her guileless smile. I knew for sure I had got under her guard.

A slight pause, then her smile came into place as she said, ‘Hank Smedley? How surprising. You mean the black boy who once worked in our garden?’

‘That’s right, Miss Thorsen. Hank, who is Mrs Smedley’s son. Do you know where I can locate him?’

‘I don’t.’ Again the guileless smile. ‘I haven’t seen him for a long time, nor has his mother.’

Then I knew she was lying, and had been lying with an expertise I had not encountered before. She could easily have fooled me but for the fact I had seen her walk into the Black Cassette.

I too could put on an act. I lifted my shoulders in a resigned shrug.

‘Looks like your brother is going to be hard to find.’ I gave her my hard cop stare, ‘But we keep on digging, Miss Thorsen. When my agency is hired for a job, we don’t give up until the job is nicely finished. I am sure you will be interested to know when we do find your brother.’ I smiled at her. ‘I will let you know.’

Leaving her standing motionless, her smile now gone, I went out into the lobby, picked up my mac, slapped on my wet hat and walked down the tarmac to my car.

Retarded, her mother had told me. Unattractive?

This girl, around 24 years of age, was the finest liar I had ever questioned. What a mug she had nearly made of me! If I hadn’t asked her about Hank, I would have had every reason to believe the lies she had been telling me.

I slid into my car.

As I started the motor, I wondered what she was going to do? Alert her brother? Alert Hank? Perhaps do nothing.

I reversed the car and drove down to the highway.

Back in my office, I found Bill thumping on his typewriter.

I told him of my interview with Angela, then concluded, ‘Here we have a real character. She lies beautifully, she has steel nerves, she has sex, she pretends she doesn’t know where to locate her brother, and bluntly says she hasn’t seen Hank Smedley for years.’

‘I still don’t understand why you want to find the brother,’ Bill said. ‘Hank seems to me to be the leading character in this business.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, pulling my typewriter towards me, ‘but I have a hunch that Terry could be the key. I could be wrong. Let’s get these reports off the desk.’

It was around 19.20 by the time we had completed our reports, and I had put them away in the Thorsen file.

‘What now?’ Bill asked.

‘We’ll go eat Italian,’ I said, ‘then I am going to talk to Hank Smedley.’

Bill cocked his head on one side.

‘You’re going to that all-black club?’

‘That’s what I’m going to do.’

‘Fine, and I’m coming with you.’

I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk and took out my .38 gun. I checked it and then thrust it into my trouser belt.

‘Get your gun too, Bill,’ I said. ‘We could walk into trouble.’

He unlocked his drawer and produced a pair of brass knuckle-dusters. He slid them on each hand and surveyed them with loving eyes.

‘If you have a gun, Dirk, I don’t need a gun.’

‘Hey! Those things are illegal!’

‘That’s a fact. So they are illegal.’ He took them off and dropped them into his pocket. ‘Nothing like a lump of brass if one gets into a fight with a black.’

I shrugged. I knew he had a punch that would put a mule to sleep. With those lethal bits of brass, he could put an elephant to sleep.

‘I have a phone call to make, then we take off.’ I called the Bellevue Hotel. I was lucky to catch Suzy. She sounded breathless. I could hear the sound of voices as people converged on the reception desk.

‘Just a word, love,’ I said. ‘Thanks for putting the wall right and for the locks. You are marvellous!’

‘That makes two of us, my hero. Keep out of trouble. See you next Wednesday,’ and she hung up.

Leaving the office, Bill and I went down to the car. It was still drizzling. I drove to Secomb’s main street, fought for parking, then we walked to Lucino’s restaurant.

I often dined there, and Lucino, squat, enormously fat and more Italian than the Italians, beamed a welcome. We shook hands, said this and that, then he conducted us to a corner table. At this early hour, the restaurant was nearly empty.

‘The special, Lucino,’ I said as I sat down.

‘For you, Mr Wallace, the very special.’

He brought us a rough Italian wine, poured the drinks, then went away.

‘If we come out of this disco alive,’ Bill said, ‘what’s the next move?’

‘We go in there as Acme operators,’ I said. ‘I ask to see Hank. If by then there isn’t a rough house, and if Hank shows up, I am asking him if he can help us to find Terry. Do you now see how important Terry is to this investigation?’

Bill scratched his head.

‘I guess so,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I see he gets you around.’

‘That’s the idea. So you ask what’s the next move to be. This depends on how cooperative Hank is. I doubt if he’ll tell us anything. So the next move is we latch on to Angela, and follow her from the moment she gets up to the moment she goes to bed.’

Bill nodded. This was the kind of work he liked.

‘Think you’ll get something from that?’

‘I don’t know, but it’s worth a try.’

Lucino came to the table bearing a vast platter of spaghetti, decorated with crisp, fried octopus, pieces of chicken and shrimps. Hot plates were produced and a big bowl of sauce that smelt of garlic and tomatoes was planked down on the table.

‘The best, Mr Wallace,’ Lucino said, beaming. ‘Nothing but the best for you.’

We ate. Both of us were hungry. When there was nothing left, we sat back and looked at each other.

‘Ready for a possible rough house, Bill?’ I asked.

He grinned.

‘After that meal, I’m ready to take on the Marines.’

The time was 20.15. A little early for the Black Cassette to be in action.

I drove down to the waterfront, found a parking space, then we walked the rest of the way to the disco. As we reached the shoddy entrance to the club, I eased my gun for a quick draw. I saw Bill had his hands in his pockets.

I shoved open the door and we walked into a large room, furnished with small tables against the walls, a polished dance floor in the centre and, at the end of the room, a bar.

There was a distinct smell of reefer smoke hanging in the air. As I had thought, the action hadn’t started, but there were a number of black people: men and women, sitting at some of the tables drinking beer.

Three men, one holding a trumpet, one holding a sax and the third one setting up a drum set, were on a raised platform.

The whole outfit looked respectable enough.

There was a sudden, solid silence as we walked in. In a moment a big black came sliding out of the shadows and blocked our further entrance. He looked big enough and powerful enough to knock over a bull.

‘Can’t you guys read?’ he demanded in a harsh, loud voice.

‘Move over, black boy,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to Hank.’

His bloodshot eyes flickered.

‘No white trash in here!’

‘Can you read?’ I said, and shoved my professional card at him.

The card made an impression on him. He stared at it, and I saw his thick lips move as he read.

‘You a cop?’ he asked, his voice less harsh.

‘Look, black boy,’ I barked, ‘take that card to Hank and tell him I want to talk to him. Get moving!’

He hesitated, then shambled away, walking across the dance floor to a door he opened, then disappeared from sight.

The dozen or so blacks were watching all this. None of them moved nor spoke. I guess they thought we were cops.

I wasn’t going to let my advantage rest.

‘Come on,’ I said to Bill and walked across the dance floor, pushed open the door through which the black had disappeared and found myself in a dimly lit corridor which led to another door. As I walked down the corridor, followed by Bill, the far end door jerked open.

I was confronted by Hank Smedley.

Bill had described him, but I didn’t realise until I was facing him just how big he was. He wasn’t big: he was enormous, standing some six feet seven inches high, with shoulders as wide as a barn door. Bill had said he had a small head: this was correct. Hank had a tiny head, ugly, flat broad nose, leathery-looking lips and glittering bloodshot eyes. He was the perfect model for a horror movie.

‘What do you want?’ he rasped, blocking the doorway. He had fists like hams, and they were clenched at his sides.

In a mild voice I said, ‘Mr Hank Smedley?’

This seemed to throw him. Probably no white man had called him ‘mister’ before. His fists unclenched.

‘Yeah. What you want?’

‘I am from the Acme Detective Agency, Mr Smedley,’ I said, still keeping the mild tone. ‘I’m hoping you can help me.’

He stared suspiciously at me. I could almost hear what brain he had creaking.

‘Help?’ he finally snarled. ‘I don’t help white men. On your way. You stink up my place.’

‘Let’s cut out the black man, white man shit,’ I said. ‘My name is Wallace. So I call you Hank, and you call me Wallace. That way we might be able to have a civilised talk.’

This approach wasn’t his scene. I could see him, hesitating. He was trying to make up his moronic mind whether to hit me or just stand there.

He stood there.

‘I’m looking for Terry Zeigler,’ I said, slowly and distinctly as if speaking to a child.

That got a reaction. He leaned forward, glaring at me. Right at that moment he made King Kong look like a powder-puff.

‘What do you want with him?’ he demanded.

I looked beyond him to where the black I had first spoken to was lurking and listening.

‘Tell that boy to get the hell out,’ I said. ‘This is confidential.’

I was deliberately trying to impose my will on this ape.

It worked.

He turned around.

‘Beat it!’ he snarled.

The black shoved by me and went back into the main room.

‘I’m trying to find Terry,’ I said, ‘because someone has left him a heap of jack. Unless I find him, the loot will remain in the bank.’

A spark of intelligence lit up his bloodshot eyes.

‘How much?’

‘Could be a hundred thousand. I don’t know for sure.’

‘A hundred thousand!’ he exclaimed, staring at me. I could see money would always make an impact on him.

‘That’s what I understand. I won’t swear to the amount: it could be more. Where do I find him?’

Blue-black veins stood out on his forehead as he thought.

Finally, he said, ‘So what happens if you do find him?’

‘No problem. I take him to the bank, he signs a few forms, and the money is his. It’s as simple as that.’

He scratched his head while he continued to batter his brain.

‘A hundred thousand?’ he said. ‘That’s a lot of jack.’

‘It sure is. Where do I find him?’

‘I dunno where he is, but I might find out. I could ask around. For all I know he isn’t living here. He could be anywhere.’

I had a feeling he was lying, but this had to be a patient game.

‘OK, Hank,’ I said. ‘You have my card. If you do contact Terry, and he wants the money, give me a call. OK?’

‘Yeah.’

He looked beyond me and became aware of Bill who was lolling against the wall, chewing gum.

‘Who’s that midget?’ he demanded.

‘He’s my bodyguard,’ I said, deadpan. ‘He’s a good man to have around if smart boys think they’re tough.’

‘That little jerk?’ Hank gave a wide, sneering grin. ‘Man! He couldn’t blow froth off beer.’

Seeing Bill slide his hands into his pockets, I backed away. I wanted to get out of this dump in one piece.

‘Let’s go, Bill,’ I said sharply. ‘OK, Hank, if you locate Terry let me know,’ and taking a firm grip on Bill’s arm, I walked him across the dance floor and into the bustle and humid heat of the waterfront.

‘Why didn’t you let me hang one on that ape?’ Bill demanded as we reached my car.

‘Patience,’ I said, getting into the car. ‘You’ll have your chance, but not right now.’

As I drove from the waterfront Bill asked, ‘What’s the next move?’

‘We go home,’ I said. ‘I still think Terry could give us the key to this case. I’ve hung out two baits. Angela and Hank now know that Terry is worth a hundred thousand. I’m sure they know where he is. I’m hoping one of them will tell him and he’ll surface.’

‘Suppose they don’t know where he is?’

‘I think they do. We’ll see. We’ll meet at the office tomorrow at nine.’

Bill shrugged.

‘Suits me.’

I dropped him off at his walk-up, then drove to the Bellevue Hotel.

Suzy gave me a loving smile as I crossed the lobby to the reception desk.

‘Honey, how about tonight? Any time?’ I asked.

She shook her head.

‘Impossible tonight, Dirk, dear. I won’t be free until three. By then I’ll be half-dead. Be patient, my love. Wednesday as usual.’

Two fat elderly men came to the desk, and with a bright smile Suzy joined them.

I tramped back to my car and drove home. With junk on the TV, I took a shower and went to bed.

In the office, the following morning, around 09.30 with Bill at his desk and me at mine, the telephone bell rang.

I scooped up the receiver.

‘Wallace?’ I recognised Hank’s gravelly voice.

‘Hi, Hank,’ I said and motioned to Bill who snatched up the extension so he could listen in. ‘You got news for me?’

‘Yeah.’ A pause, then he went on, ‘I found him, and he wants the money fast.’

‘Where did you find him, Hank?’

A long pause, then he said, ‘Never mind. When does he get the money?’

‘No problem, Hank,’ I said and grinned at Bill. ‘I’ll get it organised. I’ll call you back?’

‘What do you mean — organised?’

‘I’ll have to contact the bank and fix an appointment. Mr Ackland who runs the bank, will need identification and time to prepare forms for Terry to sign. No problem. I’ll call you back,’ and I hung up.

‘Stinks of a con,’ Bill said as he hung up.

‘Maybe. OK, here’s what you do. Go, see that Harry Rich of the Dead End club and ask him if he will be willing to identify Terry at the bank. I think he will be there pronto, to see Terry again. You take care of that. I’ll take care of Ackland.’

Twenty minutes later, I walked into Ackland’s office. He rose from his desk, shook hands and gave me his benign bishop’s smile.

‘How do we progress, Mr Wallace?’ he asked as we both sat down.

‘I understand that you hold a hundred thousand dollars in the favour of Terrance Thorsen or Zeigler, left him by a Miss Angus of the Breakers building.’

He stared at me.

‘That is correct, but I don’t understand, Mr Wallace. I am in touch with a Mr Lewis who is Miss Angus’s executor, and until he finds Mr Thorsen, who appears to have disappeared, the money remains in the bank. What is this to do with your investigation?’

‘I am hoping that Terrance Thorsen could be helpful, Mr Ackland. He has been told by friends that he can pick up this large sum of money, and it seems he has appeared. Up to now, he has not been in evidence, but the amount of money due to him brings him to the surface.’

‘Extraordinary,’ Ackland muttered.

‘Have you ever met Terry Thorsen?’

Ackland looked startled.

‘No. I’ve never seen him.’

‘So when a man walks into your office claiming a hundred thousand dollars you wouldn’t know if he was Terry Thorsen?’

Ackland half rose out of his chair, then sat hack.

‘You mean there could be an impostor?’

‘Well, a hundred thousand — it isn’t peanuts.’

‘Of course, I would need identification.’

‘It occurred to me, Mr Ackland, the best identification you could have is to invite Miss Angela Thorsen to attend, and if she identifies her brother, there should be no problem.’

His fat face brightened.

‘That is a very constructive idea, Mr Wallace.’

‘Could we set this up sometime this afternoon?’

‘Well—’ He looked at his appointment book. ‘Yes, perhaps, around three o’clock.’

‘Would you telephone Miss Thorsen to see if she will come? I expect she will be happy to see her brother again.’

‘Yes, of course. I want to do everything I can to help the Thorsen family. Let me see if I can reach her.’ He pressed a button and told Miss Kertch to connect him with Miss Angela Thorsen.

There was a good five-minute wait while I smoked a cigarette and Ackland turned papers around on his desk. When the call came through, he was all oil.

‘This is Horace Ackland of the Pacific & National Bank. I do hope I am not disturbing you.’

He listened, nodded, then went on, ‘I don’t know if you are aware that your brother, Terrance, has inherited a hundred thousand dollars.’ He listened again, then went on, ‘Yes. Mr Wallace has been most helpful. Now, Miss Thorsen, it is necessary to make sure the man who is claiming all this money is your brother. This is, of course, red tape, but as I have never met nor seen your brother I need him to be identified. Would you be prepared to come here at three o’clock this afternoon and identify your brother for me?’

He listened nodding.

‘Yes, I can understand that. It is a long time since you have seen him. I understand that you will be pleased to see him again. Splendid! Then I will expect you at my office at three o’clock this afternoon. Thank you, Miss Thorsen,’ and he hung up.

Looking at me, he said, ‘Of course, she will be only too happy to co-operate. I see no problem.’

I felt sorry for him. Horace Ackland didn’t know Angela Thorsen as I did.

‘Fine,’ I said, and got to my feet. ‘I’ll be here at three o’clock.’

‘Do that, Mr Wallace.’ He rose to his feet and, leaning across his desk, shook hands. ‘This should be a very interesting meeting.’

‘I guess so. See you later,’ and I left him.

At 14.45, I walked into the Pacific & National Bank and gave Miss Kertch my friendly smile, which bounced off her like a golf ball flung against a concrete wall.

‘Mr Ackland is engaged,’ she snapped.

‘OK. Just tell him I’m here.’ I walked to a lounging chair and made myself comfortable.

I have always found banks offer a lot of interest. I watched people come and go. I watched fat old women putting money into their bags. I watched them chat up the teller, who had a fixed, kindly smile for each of the old t rout as they arrived. Banking was not for me, I decided.

Bill and I had had a scratch lunch. He had told me he had seen not only Harry Rich but also a Miss Liza Manchini, his receptionist, who had been Terry’s girlfriend at the time of his disappearance.

‘Great stuff, Bill. A really nice bit of probing, and dead on time.’

‘No problem,’ he said, chewing on his hamburger. ‘Rich wants to talk to Terry. He’s hoping he can persuade him to return to his club. Liza is panting to get Terry back into bed. Both of them will play.’

‘Fine. Collect them, Bill, and bring them to the bank at 15.20. Not before. I want them to be a surprise.’

After a ten-minute wait Miss Kertch said, ‘Mr Ackland is free now.’

I got up and entered Ackland’s office. As usual, he shook hands and beamed his bishop’s smile.

‘Well, Mr Wallace, this should be most interesting,’ he said, waving me to a chair. ‘It’s not often I have an affair like this.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘I have all the necessary papers. I have spoken to Mr Lewis. When Miss Thorsen identifies her brother the matter can be finalised.’

I lit a cigarette, then relaxed back in the chair.

At exactly 15.00, the buzzer on Ackland’s desk sounded.

I heard Miss Kertch’s voice squawk, ‘Mr Terry Thorsen is here.’

‘Send him in,’ Ackland said, then beamed at me. ‘This will be more than interesting.’

‘You can say that yet again,’ I said.

The door opened, and a man around 25 or so walked in. He was wearing a white shirt, and black trousers tucked into Mexican boots. His black hair was long to his shoulders. He was thin and had a lean, rat-like face with small, black suspicious eyes.

Beaming, Ackland got to his feet.

‘Mr Thorsen?’

‘Yeah,’ the man said, then stared at me. ‘Who’s this?’

‘I am representing your interests,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘The name’s Wallace. I am working with Mr Solly Lewis who is the late Miss Angus’s attorney.’

His eyes shifted and he stared at Ackland.

‘Well, come on. I’m in a hurry. Where’s the money?’ His voice was harsh and his bearing hostile.

Ackland flinched.

‘Naturally, Mr Thorsen, I will require identification before giving you the money.’ He had lost his bishop’s smile.

‘What do you mean?’ There was a snarl in the voice, then the buzzer sounded.

‘Miss Thorsen, Mr Ackland,’ Miss Kertch squawked.

‘Your sister, Mr Thorsen,’ Ackland said. ‘I am sure you will be glad to see her again.’

The door opened and Angela Thorsen entered. She was wearing the sweatshirt, blue jeans, the Mexican hat and the big sun goggles. She paused in the doorway, then moved directly to the man claiming to be Terry Thorsen.

‘Terry!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is marvellous! How long it has been!’

‘Yeah,’ the man who was claiming to be Thorsen said. ‘Look, we’ll talk later. I want the money, and then let’s get the hell out of here.’

She nodded.

‘Of course, Terry.’ She turned to Ackland who was now standing and beaming. ‘This is my brother. Will you pay him, please? I want to have a long talk with him.’

‘Certainly, Miss Thorsen. You do identify him?’ Ackland said.

‘I said so, didn’t I?’ There was a hard snap in her voice. ‘I want to talk to my brother!’

Looking flustered, Ackland pushed some papers across his desk.

‘If you would sign these, Mr Thorsen, then I will arrange immediate payment.’ Ackland was falling over himself to give Angela Thorsen service. ‘How would you like the money?’

‘In cash,’ the long-haired man snarled, snatching the pen Ackland offered, and scrawled on the lines Ackland pointed out.

While he was doing this I went to the door and looked out. I saw Bill waiting with two people who were clearly Harry Rich and Liza Manchini.

‘Mr Rich, please,’ I said and signalled to Bill to hold back Miss Manchini. It looked like he’d have his work cut out.

Harry Rich, immaculately dressed, moved into Ackland’s office.

Ackland looked bewildered.

‘Who is this gentleman?’ he asked.

‘This is Mr Harry Rich who owns a nightclub, Mr Ackland,’ I said. ‘He employed Mr Thorsen as a pianist. Mr Thorsen was then known as Terry Zeigler. I thought it would be constructive for Mr Rich to identify Mr Thorsen before you parted with the money.’

‘But Miss Thorsen has already identified him!’ Ackland spluttered.

I turned to Rich.

‘Is this man Terry Zeigler?’

Rich stared hard at the long-haired man, then he shook his head.

‘He dresses the way Terry dressed, but he is not Terry. I don’t know who the hell he is, but he is not Terry Zeigler.’

‘Sure of that, Mr Rich?’

‘Of course, I am sure. Terry worked for me for months. I paid his wages into his hand every week. I don’t know what you’re trying but you have been wasting my time, Wallace,’ and Rich walked out.

Without giving Ackland time to recover from this shock, I went to the door and signalled to Bill.

‘This is Miss Manchini,’ I said. ‘She lived with Terry Thorsen, known to her as Terry Zeigler, for quite a time.’ I turned to Liza who had swept forward, her face alight with anticipation of seeing Terry again. Then she stopped short, staring at the man with the long hair who was glaring at her. ‘Miss Manchini,’ I said, ‘is this man Terry Zeigler?’

Her frustration and disappointment were too genuine to doubt.

‘That slob! Terry! Do you imagine I wouldn’t know Terry when I see him again?’

‘You are saying this man is not Terry Zeigler?’ I said.

‘Yes! Do you think I would go to bed with a slob like this?’ Her voice became shrill. ‘God! I thought I was going to see Terry again,’ and she began to cry.

Bill, who was standing by her, took a firm grip on her arm and led her out.

There was a long pause. I looked at the man who was claiming to be Terry. Sweat was running down his face, and his eyes burned with fury. I looked at Angela Thorsen. She was motionless, hidden behind her sun goggles. I looked at Ackland who sat in a heap as if his spine was broken.

As I expected, Angela was the first to recover and take the initiative. She walked up to Ackland’s desk and stood over him.

‘Mr Ackland,’ she said, her voice harsh, ‘I know this man is my brother. Are you going to tell me you are going to take the word of a cheap nightclub owner and a whore against mine?’

Nice work, I thought, seeing Ackland’s reaction.

‘Of course not, Miss Thorsen, but there must be some mistake,’ he mumbled.

‘There is no mistake!’ Angela snapped. ‘These two people don’t want Terry to have the money left to him! They are deliberately lying! Please arrange for my brother to be paid!’

I came to Ackland’s rescue. He looked as if he was going to have a stroke.

‘Miss Thorsen!’ I barked in my cop voice. ‘Mr Ackland has no authority to pay out this money! I am representing Mr Lewis who is the executor of Miss Angus’s will. I am not satisfied. You say this man is your brother. Two people, who have known your brother for some time, say this man is an impostor. Mr Ackland will not be given the authority to payout one hundred thousand dollars until I am satisfied this man is really your brother.’

She turned. I longed to hook off her big sun goggles that completely masked her face, but I could see by her thin, trembling body how furious she was.

‘I demand my brother gets the money!’ she said, her voice low and full of hate.

‘There is really no problem,’ I said ‘Across the road is the Eden Club. Suppose we all go over there, and I will arrange with the owner, who is a friend of mine, for this guy to sit at the piano and play. If he plays as well as Fats Waller, then he gets the money. Fair enough?’

The man trying to pass himself off as Terry Zeigler suddenly went berserk.

‘I told that fucking slob it wouldn’t work!’ he yelled. ‘I told you, you stupid bitch, it wouldn’t work!’ and shoving by me, he rushed out of the office.

‘Well, Mr Ackland, that seems to be that,’ I said, feeling sorry for him as he sat deflated, his fat face as white as a sheet. ‘When Terry Thorsen does turn up, I’ll alert you.’ I looked at Angela who was standing like a statue. ‘A good try, Miss Thorsen, but not good enough.’

She turned slowly.

‘I will make you sorry for this,’ she said, her voice a low hiss. ‘God! You will be sorry!’

The vicious menace in her voice was unmistakable.

‘Try to grow up, Miss Thorsen,’ I said quietly. ‘Money isn’t everything.’ and I left the office, feeling sorry for Ackland who now had this vicious girl to cope with.

I expected to find Bill waiting for me, but he wasn’t there. I walked to where I had parked my car. That wasn’t there either. I flagged down a cab and returned to the office.

I had quite a report to write up for the Thorsen file.