Hit Them Where it Hurts

Five

I was expecting to find Bill at his desk, but he wasn’t there, so I put a phone call through to Solly Lewis, Miss Angus’s executor.

He answered on the first ring and sounded like a man hopefully needing a rich client.

‘Solly Lewis, attorney,’ he announced in a firm, determined voice.

‘Who else?’ I said. ‘This is Wallace. Acme.’

‘Oh.’ A disappointed pause, then ‘Yes, Mr Wallace?’ His voice had gone down two major tones.

‘You busy?’

‘Not right now. What is it?’

‘Relax, Mr Lewis, and listen.’ I then gave him a blow-by-blow account of the afternoon’s performance at the bank. He listened in complete silence, then I concluded, ‘Looks, Mr Lewis, that Miss Angus’s money is attracting flies.’

‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Miss Thorsen identified this man as her brother.’

‘Don’t let us waste time. I’ve given you the facts. Have you ever seen Terry Thorsen?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘I told Ackland you would not release the money unless you had complete assurance that the claimant was Terry Thorsen. Right?’

‘The money was left to Terry Zeigler, Mr Wallace.’

‘From my information,’ I said patiently ‘Thorsen and Zeigler are one and the same.’

‘I don’t know. All I do know is the money has been left to a man called Terry Zeigler.’ A pause, then he went on, ‘What information have you that Thorsen and Zeigler are the same?’

Patiently, I explained that when Terry left home he got a job playing the piano at the Dead End club, and changed his name to Zeigler.

‘Very well, Mr Wallace,’ Lewis said. ‘Then I can assume that Thorsen and Zeigler are one and the same.’

‘That’s what you can do. Now tell me: if Zeigler is dead or is never found, who gets the money?’

‘Miss Angus left the money to him. No one will get it unless it can be proved without doubt that Zeigler was Thorsen, then Thorsen’s next of kin gets it.’

‘Would that be his mother or his sister?’

‘His mother.’

‘OK, Mr Lewis. We’ll keep in contact. Maybe it would be an idea for you to call Ackland and tell him the money stays in the bank until you are satisfied about the claimant. OK?’

‘I’ll do that right now.’

‘Fine. I’ll be talking to you again, Mr Lewis,’ and I hung up.

The time now was 16.15. I wondered where Bill had got to. I wanted to discuss with him this new development. I pulled my typewriter towards me and began to thump out my report.

I had just finished when Bill walked in.

Whipping the last page from my typewriter, I said, ‘Where’ve you been? I thought you had dropped dead.’

‘I could do with a drink,’ he said as he slumped into his desk chair. ‘Where’ve I been? I’ve been working my ass off.’

I produced the office bottle, noting the time was 18.40. I made two drinks, found ice and shoved a glass over to Bill.

‘So?’

‘When this guy, pretending to be Terry, came charging out of Ackland’s office, I could see he was crazy mad. I followed him into the street. He had one of these big souped-up Honda motor cycles, and he took off. He was heading for the waterfront, and it was my guess he was going to the Black Cassette, but I was wrong. He drove past the joint, went further, then turned up Oyster Alley. There are three blocks of walk-ups there, used by the waterfront fishermen. I didn’t drive in. I heard the Honda engine die. By the time I had parked the car and walked up the alley there was no sign of this guy, but his Honda was parked outside a sleazy looking building. I took the number of the Honda, then drove to the car registration office. No problem there. The guy’s name is Lu Gerando, living at apartment 10, 3 Oyster Alley.’

Bill paused to take a long drink at his Scotch. ‘So I went along to the cop house and had a talk to Joe Beigler. He wanted to know what my interest was in Gerando. I said I was just asking for information and did he know anything about the guy. He said he knew of him, but he was clean so far as the cops were concerned. All the same, the cops were keeping an eye on him. His father worked for the Mafia. He must have crossed his lines because he was blown away when Lu was 15 years old. He took care of his mother by doing casual labour on the waterfront until she died. They are Sicilians, and Beigler is suspicious of Gerando, but has nothing to pin onto him. I went back to the waterfront and contacted a couple of guys I know down there, but they could tell me nothing. They don’t know what Gerando does for a living.’ Bill finished his drink. ‘That’s it, Dirk.’

‘Good progress, Bill,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to Al Barney. He could come up with something.’

The intercom buzzed. I pressed the switch.

‘Dirk?’ Glenda snapped. ‘Bring the Thorsen file, please,’ and she switched off.

Bill and I exchanged glances, then I got the file.

‘So what’s eating her?’ I said as I made for the door.

I entered Glenda’s office and put the file on her desk.

‘Right up to date,’ I said.

‘Colonel Parnell will be back tomorrow morning,’ Glenda said. ‘He will want to see this.’ She tapped the file. ‘The investigation is finished. I had a telephone call from Mrs Thorsen. She said she was not paying us anymore fees, and she was no longer interested. So, Dirk, you can forget the Thorsen case.’

I stared at her.

‘You mean all this is so much waste of time?’

I slammed my fist down on the file.

Glenda smiled.

‘We’ve done very nicely out of Mrs Thorsen. I wouldn’t call it a waste of time.’

‘Just when it began to look interesting.’ I shrugged. ‘So, OK. What’s the next assignment?’

‘That’s for the colonel to decide. You’ll be seeing him tomorrow.’

I returned to my office and broke the news to Bill.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ he exclaimed in disgust.

‘That makes two of us,’ I said. ‘Well, there it is. The colonel will find us something else to work on.’ I looked at my watch. The time was 19.20. ‘Let’s go and eat. How about Lucino again?’

Bill’s face brightened.

‘Great! Let’s go!’

Then the telephone bell on my desk came alive. Impatiently, I snatched up the receiver. I was hungry and depressed, but I wasn’t to know this telephone call would alter my whole way of life.

‘Dirk Wallace,’ I snapped. ‘Who is this?’

‘Oh, Dirk!’ A woman’s quavering voice. ‘This is Betty Stowell.’

Betty Stowell was the third receptionist at the Bellevue Hotel. She and Suzy were close friends. I had met Betty from time to time, a nice, cuddly girl with no complexes, a steady boyfriend and hopes of raising a big family.

‘Hi, Betty,’ I said, then stiffened as I could hear she was crying. ‘For God’s sake, Betty, what’s the trouble?’

‘Oh, Dirk. God forgive me for having to tell you, but someone must tell you. Oh, Dirk...’

Cold sweat began to run down my back.

‘Is it Suzy?’

‘Yes, dear Dirk. Suzy is dead.’

‘What are you telling me?’ I shouted. ‘Suzy dead?’

‘Yes.’

I sat motionless, listening to the sounds of her sobbing, and knowing from these sounds there could be no mistake. Suzy was dead! Suzy whom I loved, planned to marry, who did so much for me — dead!

‘What happened?’ I shouted.

‘Please — the police know. I can’t talk anymore,’ and still sobbing, she hung up.

I closed my eyes.

Suzy dead!

Vaguely, I heard Bill say, ‘Jesus! I’m sorry, Dirk,’ and then he got up and left me alone.

I was grateful for that. I sat, staring into space, thinking of Suzy, what she had meant to me, and realising, perhaps for the first time, how much I loved her.

I sat there for maybe ten minutes, then I got hold of myself.

How did it happen?

I pulled the telephone to me and dialled the police headquarters. I asked to speak to Joe Beigler. He and I had a good association. If anyone knew, he would.

He came on the line.

‘Joe, this is Dirk Wallace,’ I said.

‘Look, Dirk, I’m just signing off. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

‘Suzy Long,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

‘What’s she to you?’ Beigler demanded.

‘She was my girlfriend, Joe. We were planning to get married. That’s what she meant to me.’

‘Oh Christ, I’m sorry to hear that!’

‘What happened?’

‘The facts are these,’ Beigler said. ‘This morning as Miss Long was leaving for the hotel, a car pulled up and a man asked her if she could direct him to Westbury Drive. There were two old women passing and they heard this. Miss Long went up to the car and began to give directions. She got a face full of acid, and the car took off. These two old women say that Miss Long, covering her face and screaming, ran into the road and was crushed to death by a passing truck.’

I felt bile rise in my mouth and had a struggle not to vomit.

Beigler, understanding my feelings, gave me a long moment, then he said, ‘The boys are working on this, but so far, they’ve turned up nothing. The two witnesses were old and useless. Neither of them could give a description of the car. One of them thought the driver was black, but her friend said she imagined that. The boys are questioning everyone living in the various blocks. They could come up with something.’

The driver was black.

I took a long, deep breath.

‘Where is she?’

‘The city’s morgue.’ A pause, then he went on, ‘Look, Dirk, leave it. Miss Stowell has been most helpful. The staff manager of the hotel has identified Miss Long. We have informed her father who is flying here to take care of the funeral. Take my tip, Dirk, don’t go look at her. The acid did a job, and so did the truck. Keep out of it.’

‘Thanks, Joe,’ I said and hung up.

He was right. I wanted to keep in my memory Suzy’s bright, lovely face, not a face disfigured by acid. I told myself I wouldn’t even go to the funeral. The dead are dead.

I sat back and lit a cigarette. This awful empty feeling of loss gradually turned into a burning feeling for revenge. I sat there for maybe twenty minutes before making any decision. Having made it, I locked my desk drawers, turned off the lights and walked down the corridor to the elevators.

I drove back to my apartment. As I paused outside my front door, fumbling for my keys, I saw a scrap of paper pasted on the door.

On it, scrawled in small lettering was the message:

A full moon was climbing lazily into a cloudless sky as I found parking on the waterfront.

I had showered and changed into a sports shirt and linen slacks. I had checked my last bank statement. I was worth $12,000. This was money I had been saving for when Suzy and I setup home. No more Suzy — no more home.

I left the car and walked along the waterfront which was crowded with tourists, gaping at the various characters coming off the fishing boats.

The time was 21.30. The air was hot and humid, but, at least, there was no sign of rain.

I walked to the Neptune Tavern. There were a few fishermen at the tables, eating. This wasn’t a tourist haunt. Across the room Al Barney, in his special corner, was eating, a beer at his elbow.

He put down his knife and fork as I sat down at his table. His fat face wore a mournful look.

‘I was hoping to see you, Mr Wallace,’ he said. ‘Have something on the house.’

Sam, the barkeep, slid up.

‘Accept a corned beef sandwich, Mr Wallace,’ he said. ‘You’ll like it. My pleasure, please, and Mr Wallace, accept my sorrow.’

I looked at Barney.

‘Yeah. The news is out. The acid job,’ Barney said, and shook his head. ‘Let me tell you, everyone who means anything down here is sorry. I am more than sorry.’ He cut a slice of meat and shoved it into his mouth. Munching, he went on, ‘Anything I can do?’

Sam slid up to the table and placed a fat sandwich and a glass half filled with Scotch and ice before me.

‘My pleasure, Mr Wallace,’ he said and slid away.

I waited while Barney continued to feed his face. After a couple of more mouthfuls, he put down his knife and fork.

‘Mr Wallace, you have done me a lot of good in the past. I don’t forget people who do things for me. Give me and Sam the pleasure to eat that sandwich. A guy works and thinks better when he has grub in his gut.’

So I ate the sandwich, which could have been worse, and I drank the Scotch. I was feeling a lot more like myself as I lit a cigarette.

Barney beamed at me.

‘OK, Mr Wallace, I am at your service.’

‘Al, I’m going to fix those bastards who did the acid job, but first, I need information.’

Barney nodded.

‘When I heard about it, I reckoned you’d start something. So OK, what information?’

‘Know anything about Lu Gerando?’

Barney stiffened, and his little eyes popped wide open.

‘Gerando? Don’t tell me he’s mixed up in this, Mr Wallace.’

‘He could be. What do you know about him?’

‘No good,’ Barney said. ‘He stooges for Joe Walinski, who owns a big yacht, and Gerando guards the yacht when Walinski is out of town, he drives Walinski’s car. A general stooge.’

‘Do you know if he is in any way connected with Hank Smedley?’

‘I guess so. I’ve seen them together.’ Barney sipped his beer. ‘They certainly know each other.’

‘Who is Joe Walinski?’

Barney shifted uneasily on his chair.

‘Mr Wallace, you are getting me into deep water. I don’t like talking about Walinski. It ain’t healthy.’ He was now looking worried.

I waited.

Barney made a signal to Sam who came rushing over with a plate of the ghastly sausages. He looked at me.

‘Can I get you something else, Mr Wallace?’ he asked. ‘A nice cup of coffee or maybe another Scotch? It’s all on the house.’

‘Thanks, Sam. Nothing,’ I said, trying to keep the edge of impatience out of my voice.

He took away the used plates and went back to the bar.

Barney fed three of the sausages into his mouth, gulped, wiped his watering eyes with the back of his hand, then regarded me.

‘Mr Wallace, if I talk about Walinski and it gets known, I’m going to be found in the harbour with my throat cut.’

‘If you don’t tell anyone and I don’t tell anyone, who’s to know? Who is Joe Walinski?’

He ate three more sausages, coughed, again wiped his eyes, then leaning forward, breathing hot pepper in my face, he said, ‘OK, Mr Wallace, so I talk. I wouldn’t do it for any other man but for you...’

‘Who is Joe Walinski?’ I repeated, a snarl in my voice.

‘He is the collector for the east coast Mafia. He comes in his yacht every first of the month and stays a week. During that week he collects protection money, blackmail money, the casino’s payoff. That’s who Walinski is: as dangerous and as deadly as a dose of poison. Make no mistake about that, Mr Wallace. All the waterfront cops know, but they say nothing. On the night of the first of each month, around three in the morning, people arrive at the yacht with their payoffs. The waterfront cops look the other way. No one goes near the yacht unless he or she is doing business with Walinski. No one!’

‘What’s the yacht called, Al?’

‘The Hermes. Just beyond the fish trawlers to the right.’

‘Is Hank Smedley one of Walinski’s collectors?’

Barney tossed three more sausages into his mouth, munched, then nodded.

I have never seen him look so worried. I decided it wasn’t fair to press him further so I got to my feet and offered him my hand. His grip was clammy, but sympathetic.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Wallace. Please don’t do anything crazy.’

I nodded and went over to Sam.

‘Can’t I pay?’

‘Mr Wallace, I am sorry, like Mr Barney is. No, nothing to pay and good luck.’

I walked out into the dark, humid night and along the quay. The tourists had returned to their hotels for dinner. Only a few late fishermen were scattered around, talking. The two waterfront cops were standing, staring aimlessly at the trawlers. I regarded them closely. These two men were aware of Walinski’s racket, and I was sure they had a payoff to keep their mouths shut. They were big over-fat men, swinging nightsticks: tough and stupid looking.

Keeping to the shadows, I walked along until I came to the yacht Hermes. It was a hundred-footer with cabin accommodation: a nice, luxury job.

I paused under the shadow of a palm tree. I could vaguely see a man sitting on the deck. The red glow of his cigarette was a splinter of light in the darkness. No lights showed in or on the yacht.

I guessed Lu Gerando was keeping guard.

I had a lot to think about. Turning, I walked back to where I had parked my car. I passed the Black Cassette. Lights showed behind the dirty, thin curtains that shielded the windows. I could hear strident dance music.

I kept on, got in my car and drove back to my home.

I spent a sleepless night, thinking of Suzy thinking of those wonderful moments we had together, and what we had planned for the future.

At 04.00, I couldn’t stand my thoughts any longer. I threw two sleeping pills into my mouth and finally sparked out.

I walked into Glenda Kerry’s office at 11.30.

‘You’re late, Dirk. The colonel has been asking for you.’ She stared at me, ‘Something wrong? You don’t look well.’

‘The colonel ready to see me?’ I demanded curtly.

Again she stared at me, then waved to the colonel’s office door.

‘He’s free,’ she said.

Parnell was sitting at his desk. He was a giant of a man, on the wrong side of 60. His fleshy, sun-tanned face, small piercing blue eyes and the rattrap of a mouth stamped him as a veteran soldier, and don’t-let-us-forget-it.

‘Morning, Dirk,’ he said, regarding me as I walked into the big room with bay windows that overlooked the harbour. ‘Sit down.’

I sat in a chair, facing him.

‘I’ve read through the Thorsen file. It looked interesting, and you have done an excellent job. Well, Mrs Thorsen has pulled out, so we forget it. I’ve a nice job lined up for you and Anderson.’

‘Not for me, Colonel,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m quitting.’

He lifted his big hands and let them drop on his desk.

‘I was fearing you would say that, Dirk. I had hoped you could have shifted your mind to other things. I know about Suzy. I am as sorry as hell. I go along with your thinking. If I were in the unhappy position as you are, and this happened to someone I loved, I would go after those bastards.’

‘That’s what I am going to do,’ I said.

‘Right. You are suspended from work for four weeks. You will be paid as usual. Anderson can hold down your job until you return. OK?’

I shook my head.

‘I appreciate this, Colonel, but I am quitting. I am going to start a war that you won’t want to know about. I could even end up in the City’s morgue or in jail so you must not be involved in any way.’ I got to my feet, then seeing the fat Thorsen file on his desk, I went on, ‘One last favour, Colonel.’ I picked up the file. ‘I want this.’

‘You think the Thorsen case has something to do with the acid job?’

‘I am sure it has. Not all the facts are in this file. You don’t want to know about them. Thanks, Colonel. It’s been great working for you. I’m sorry it has to end this way.’

He got to his feet and thrust out his hand.

‘If you get out of this mess, Dirk, you will always have a job with me.’

As I shook his hand I said, ‘I don’t think I will get out of this mess. I’m going to hit them where it hurts.’

‘Don’t do anything foolish, Dirk.’

‘I’m going to hit them where it hurts, and sooner or later they will hit back. I’ll let you have my resignation, and I’ll tell Bill to take over the job you want fixing.’

Leaving him looking worried, I returned to my office where Bill was sitting at his desk.

We looked at each other as I sat at my desk, opposite his.

‘You have my job, Bill,’ I said. ‘The colonel will be calling you. I am quitting.’

‘That makes two of us,’ Bill said quietly.

I stared at him.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You quit — I quit. Just that simple.’

‘Why should you quit, you idiot? Look, Bill, I don’t need complications. You take over, and I quit.’

‘When a lovely girl like Suzy gets a face full of acid, and she’s my best friend’s girl,’ Bill said, his voice low, ‘I go with him. OK, Dirk, you may not want me, but you won’t get rid of me. We quit together, and together we go after these bastards.’

‘No!’

He held up his hand.

‘I know. We both could land up in the morgue, but, we will have done a lot of damage by then. Write your resignation, and let me see how it is done. Then I’ll write mine. Then we go back to your pad and plan a campaign.’

‘No, Bill! It’s terrific of you, but...’

‘For God’s sake!’ Bill shouted. ‘You heard me! We either work together or apart, and if I have to, I’ll go after these bastards on my own.’

I stared at him, feeling an emotional surge go through me. I knew I could more than do with him. I knew as a loner I would have less chance to survive.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘So, OK, we’re in this together.’

I pulled my typewriter towards me and thumped out my resignation, then I ripped out the paper and gave it to Bill. He then thumped out his resignation.

‘I’ll go see the colonel,’ he said.

‘Take the two resignations with you.’

Bill came around his desk and put his hand on my shoulder.

‘Between us, Dirk, we’ll fix them,’ he said.

‘You don’t know what you are walking into, Bill. Maybe we had better talk first before you see the colonel.’

‘I don’t give a damn what I’m walking into,’ Bill said and grinned. ‘I’ll be back,’ and he left the office.

While Bill was seeing the colonel, I cleared my desk. I had a hold-all in one of the closets, and I packed the stuff I wanted, plus the Thorsen file, plus the half-finished bottle of Scotch.

When Bill returned, he gave me a wide grin.

‘No problem. The colonel flipped, but he went along with my thinking. He’s rooting for us, Dirk. So OK, if we both get out of this mess, our jobs will be waiting.’

‘Want to clear your desk?’

‘Scarcely anything to clear. I’m hungry. Let’s go eat.’

‘You’re always hungry. Sit down. I want to talk to you.’

‘Dirk, when a guy is hungry as I am, he can’t concentrate. Let’s go eat and talk, huh?’

I shrugged.

‘OK. We’ll go along and say goodbye to Glenda, then we’ll go to Lucino’s.’

Although it was after 19.30, Glenda was still at her desk.

‘We want to say goodbye Glenda,’ I said, as Bill and I paused in the doorway.

‘Come in, Dirk.’ She got to her feet. ‘I want to tell you how shocked and sorry I am. I want to tell you to go after these brutes. If I were in your place, I would do what you are doing.’ She pushed two envelopes across the desk. ‘Those are your month’s salaries. Don’t argue. It’s the colonel’s wish.’

‘He’s a great guy,’ I said, and took the envelopes. ‘Well, let’s hope we’ll be seeing you again.’

‘Of course! One more thing, Dirk, if you want information, if you think we can be helpful, unofficially, call me. OK?’

‘Thanks, Glenda.’

We all shook hands, then Bill and I walked to the elevator.

I drove to Lucino’s restaurant. As soon as Lucino saw me, he came rushing from behind the bar.

‘Our special VIP table, Mr Wallace,’ he said, shaking hands.

He led us to a table, tucked into a corner away from the other tables. At this hour there were few people waiting to be served.

As we sat down Lucino looked sorrowfully at me.

‘Mr Wallace. I heard. I’m sorry. There is nothing more I can say except I grieve for you.’

I saw there were tears in his eyes. I leaned forward and patted his arm.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You are a good friend.’

‘Now, Mr Wallace, I intend to prepare something very special for you. Give me the pleasure, and Mr Wallace, this is on the house. I need to express my deep-felt sympathy. Please don’t say no. Leave it to me.’

I felt a wave of emotion run through me, but I controlled it.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

Lucino rushed away to the kitchen. I could hear him shouting to his two chefs.

Bill sat back.

‘You certainly have good friends, Dirk,’ he said. ‘Man! Am I starving!’

In minutes, a waiter placed platters of stone crabs and a basket of crispy bread before us.

I knew it would be a waste of time to talk to Bill until he had taken the edge off his appetite, so we ate in silence. The waiter produced a bottle of chilled white wine and poured.

I ate little. I had too much on my mind. Food didn’t interest me. When I saw Bill had finished his crab claws, I dropped half my portion onto his plate. He looked at me, nodded and dived in.

Finally, when he had finished and sat back with a sigh of content, I said, ‘Can you concentrate now?’

‘What’s to follow?’ he asked as the waiter arrived and cleared the platters.

‘God knows!’ I said impatiently. ‘Now listen, Bill. I have been saving money, and we will need money. Neither of us will be earning anything. How are you fixed for money?’

He gave me a happy grin.

‘No problem. I’ve stashed away twenty-five big ones. What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is yours. OK?’

The waiter arrived with two more platters on which lay juicy steaks and half a lobster and a big bowl of french fries.

‘Oh!’ Bill exclaimed. ‘Now this is like a real meal!’

We ate. A lime pie followed, then a big jug of coffee.

I refused the pie, and with growing impatience watched Bill eat.

Finally, he sat back and patted his stomach.

‘The best,’ he said. ‘The very best!’

‘Now, will you shut up and listen?’ I said.

I told him what I had learned from Al Barney.

‘We’re going to get mixed up with the Mafia. You still have time to pull out. I must warn you this is going to be a very dangerous ride.’

Bill sipped his coffee.

‘The Mafia, huh?’

‘That’s it.’

He nodded.

‘I wondered about the acid job. It smelt to me of the Mafia. Fine. Together we take them. Just tell me what you want me to do.’

‘You really mean this, Bill? We both could finish up dead. You realise this?’

For a long moment, Bill looked thoughtful, then he grinned at me and shrugged.

‘So what? You can only die once. Together, we’ll take them. What’s the first move?’

‘As we’ll be working together, it would be a good idea for you to move into my spare room. Shut up your pad, and we’ll be together. OK?’

Bill nodded.

‘Fine with me.’

‘Right. Go pack whatever you want and move in.’ I put the keys of my apartment on the table. ‘I’ll be with you in a couple of hours.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘I’ll tell you later. You move in. I’ll be seeing you.’

I shook hands with Lucino, thanked him for the dinner, then went out into the humid night air. Getting into my car, I drove to the Thorsens’ residence. As I had hoped, the place was in darkness, except for a light showing in Josh Smedley’s room.

I parked the car outside the gates and walked up the drive. I had to tug the front door bell chain three times before the door was opened, and Josh gazed at me with drink-glazed eyes.

‘It’s Mr Wallace?’ he said, peering. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wallace, Mrs Thorsen isn’t in. She’s at the opera. So sorry.’

I shoved my way in, sending him staggering back.

‘It’s you I want to see, Josh,’ I said. ‘It’s time we talked.’

He looked defeated as only a man full of Scotch can look when faced with trouble.

‘I don’t think...’ he began to mumble, but I caught his arm and steered him down the corridor and into his room. There was a bottle of Scotch and a glass on the table. Josh seemed thankful to flop into his easy chair.

I sloshed more Scotch into his glass, then sat down, facing him.

‘Josh, it’s time you faced up to the facts,’ I said, giving him my cop stare. ‘Your son, Hank, is in real trouble.’

With a trembling hand, he picked up his glass, but didn’t drink.

‘I guess that’s right, Mr Wallace.’

‘Do you know he’s mixed up with the Mafia?’

He made a soft moaning noise, then nodded.

‘Yes, Mr Wallace. I’ve known it for some time. I’ve talked to him, but Hank is difficult. He just laughs at me. Yes, I know. He’s heading for trouble.’

‘No, Josh, he is not heading for trouble; he is in trouble. Do you know Angie is also mixed up with the Mafia?’

‘Miss Thorsen?’ He nodded and sipped his drink. ‘I guess so from what I hear. She’s just one of Hank’s customers. I know that.’

‘Blackmail customers?’

He shivered, then nodded.

‘I guess that’s right, but make no mistake about this, Mr Wallace no one messes with the Mafia.’

‘Why are they blackmailing Miss Thorsen?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t want to know.’

‘Hank knows?’

‘I don’t know. He’s just a collector.’

‘Mrs Thorsen hired me to find out who was blackmailing her daughter. Now, she has stopped the investigation. Do you know why?’

He took a long gulp at his drink, and for some minutes he remained still, staring with almost sightless eyes at me.

‘Why?’ I asked again, raising my voice.

He hesitated, then said, ‘A man threatened her, Mr Wallace. I have an extension on the telephone. I heard him tell her that if she didn’t call off the investigation, he would burn down her house — this house, Mr Wallace, this beautiful house.’

‘Who was he?’

‘Who else? The Mafia. A voice. He had that kind of voice that scares people. Mrs Thorsen listened, then hung up. I don’t know anything more.’

‘But you do know that Hank is heading for a fifteen-year stretch in the slammer as a blackmail collector, don’t you?’ I said it quietly and slowly so my words would sink in.

He flinched.

‘Fifteen years?’

‘That’s it, Josh. Fifteen years.’ Looking at this wreck of a man, I felt sorry for him.

‘I’ve warned him,’ he said, after minutes. ‘He just laughs at me. What do I do, Mr Wallace? I love my son.’

‘You really have no idea why Miss Thorsen is being blackmailed?’

‘I’d tell you if I did. I don’t know.’

‘Have you any news of Terry Thorsen?’

I had to repeat the question three times before he reacted, but it was a negative reaction.

‘I’ve heard nothing from him.’

There was no further point in staying in this sad, depressing room. I got to my feet.

‘Maybe I’ll be seeing you again, Josh.’

I left him, staring almost sightlessly at his half-finished drink.

In my racket you pick up all kinds of useful information.

Getting into my car, I drove down to the shabbier quarters of the waterfront where there were stalls, seedy boutiques and junk on trestle tables.

I parked and walked to a stall run by an Arab or maybe a Palestinian. I wouldn’t know the difference. His name was Ali Hassan, and he sold junk to the tourists.

I found him smoking a reefer behind a stall of utter junk. By his side, sitting on the ground, was his wife who looked like an inflated balloon about to take off.

Hassan was short, fat and wearing Arab robes with a headdress. He looked the answer to any tourist’s prayer.

‘Mr Hassan,’ I said, pausing before him. ‘My name is Doe. I have some private business with you involving money. Can we go someplace where we can talk?’

He regarded me, his little eyes like wet black olives, then he got to his feet, muttered something to his wife who shrugged her fat shoulders, then he joined me.

‘Anything to do with money interests me,’ he said. ‘So where do we go?’

I led him to my car and got him settled in the passenger’s seat. His body smell was a little overpowering and I opened all the windows. This helped, but not much.

‘Mr Hassan,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to waste your time, nor mine. I have information that you are a bomb expert. I need a bomb for which I will pay good money. Are you in the market?’

He drew on his reefer without moving his steady gaze.

‘Who gave you this information?’

‘Do you care? I want a bomb. If you can’t deliver, just say so, and I’ll shop elsewhere.’

‘What kind of bomb?’

‘Something small that will do a lot of damage, but won’t start a fire.’

He sat silent, like a coiled fat snake, staring now at the busy waterfront, then he nodded.

‘It’s possible. Yes, I could arrange that, but what will you pay?’

‘What’s your usual charge?’

‘For a small bomb, without causing fire, that is safe for an amateur to handle and will cause a lot of damage, my price would be three thousand dollars.’

He expected to haggle, and I didn’t disappoint him. I spent nearly thirty minutes haggling with him. I was in no hurry. Finally, we settled for one thousand and three hundred.

‘OK, Mr Doe,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow night at this time, you come to my stall and I’ll deliver. No problems. A nice little job, plenty of noise, plenty of damage and no fire. OK?’

I took out my wallet and gave him five hundred. As he stowed the money away in his voluminous robes, I said, ‘Mr Hassan, I know you have a good reputation. Make sure you live up to it. I could make your life a misery.’

He grinned uneasily.

‘No problems, Mr Doe.’

He climbed out of my car and went waddling through the stream of tourists to his junk stall.

I set the air conditioner working to clear his smell, then closed the windows and headed for home.

As I drove through the traffic congested streets, I thought that in the early hours of tomorrow morning the Black Cassette would no longer be in business.

So, OK, this was revenge, but whatever I did wouldn’t bring Suzy’s bright face again on my pillow.