Manhunt. Volume 6, Number 4, June, 1958

Blackmailers Don’t Take Chances by David C. Cooke

Bennett knew he had to pay the stranger off. But Bennett wasn’t going to pay off in money...

The envelope arrived at his office in the morning mail. It was marked Personal and Private, so Miss Madison did not open it. There was no return address, no letter. Just a picture of him and Gloria in the bedroom of her apartment, and they weren’t looking for missing cufflinks.

Shock slammed into Norman Bennett when he first ripped open the envelope and drew out the picture. He could not believe it was possible. No one could have taken such a picture. They’d been alone, he and Gloria. They were always alone in her place. He’d made sure no one ever saw them together.

But then who had taken the picture... and how... and why hadn’t they at least written a note... and what happened next?

That last was easy. It was too obvious. And he’d have to pay, no matter how much the blackmailer demanded. If Stella ever got her hands on the picture, she would have plenty of evidence for a countersuit against his incompatability grounds. And she would milk him dry in alimony. It was just the kind of thing she had been waiting for.

Bennett looked at the picture again, and perspiration oozed from his pores and ran down his cheeks. There was no mistaking the people. Every line in Gloria’s ecstasy-contorted features stood out in stark detail, and his face was equally clear. He had moved his head to the side just as the camera clicked, giving almost a profile shot. But even if his face had been hidden, the tattoo on his right shoulder would have been identification enough. It was an exclusive design the artist in Tokyo had worked out for him, and all his friends knew it by sight.

He threw the picture to the top of his desk and jumped up from his chair. He paced back and forth on the thick pile carpeting.

Despite the precautions he and Gloria had taken, someone had seen them together and had followed them, had probably been following them and watching them for a long time. Probably even knew that he went to see her every Tuesday and Friday after leaving the office.

But who could it have been, and how had he got into her place to take the picture, and why hadn’t either of them heard him or seen him?

There were no answers to those questions. Not a single damn one. He stopped his pacing, went back to his desk, picked up his private phone. As quietly and calmly as possible, he told Gloria about the picture.

“No!” she cried. “My God!”

“Now don’t get upset,” Bennett said. “It’ll be all right.”

“But how can it be all right? Suppose somebody saw the picture — somebody who knows you or me?”

“They won’t,” he assured her.

“You don’t know how many prints have been made from the negative,” she argued, her voice tense. “He could have made hundreds!”

“Blackmailers don’t work like that,” he said, trying to soothe her. “He just made a print or two, and put one in the mail to scare me. He wouldn’t have shown it to anyone else. Scum like this have to work secretly.”

There was silence on the line for a second, then she said quietly, “What happens next?”

“He’ll probably phone and tell me his price.”

“Will you — pay it?” she asked hesitantly.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t want to think, I want to know. Tell me the truth.”

“Of course I’ll pay. You know what would happen if Stella ever got hold of the picture. She’d be worse than any blackmailer. She might even refuse to give me the divorce.”

“No!”

“She’s that kind of a woman,” Bennett said. “Just so long as she gets what she wants, she doesn’t give a damn about anybody else.”

“But why would she want to hold you? She doesn’t love you, she’s never loved you.”

“I’ve told you before. Because she loves my money. It’s as simple as that. She hates my insides, but she loves my money. That’s the reason I’ll have to pay the blackmailer’s price, no matter how much it is.”

A short time later he hung up and looked at the envelope again. It was cheap, the dime-store variety, impossible to trace. And his name and address were in block lettering. Everything had the professional touch. It was obvious that he was dealing with someone who knew what he was doing.

Now there was nothing to do except wait for the phone call. And he had the feeling that it would not come too soon. The blackmailer would want to build up suspense and stretch his nerves thin. But he swore he would not let it get him. He knew what he was going to do, so there was no reason to worry, no reason to make things worse than they already were.

But suppose he wasn’t in his office when the call came? The blackmailer might think he was refusing to play ball, and that could be rough. If he wasn’t in the market, Stella would be. But definitely. She would give anything or promise anything to get her filthy hands on that picture. He could almost see the way she would gloat in satisfaction. God, but she’d love it!

Despite the promise he’d made to himself, fear shot into Norman Bennett so strongly his mouth was full of its coppery taste. He pressed the button on his intercom set.

“Yes, Mr. Bennett?”

“Miss Madison,” he said shortly, “I’ll take all calls that come for me today. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” But it was obvious that she did not understand.

“And don’t bother asking for names. Just put them through.”

“Yes, Mr. Bennett.”

He took the picture from the envelope again, and this time his fingers were trembling. How could anybody be so depraved to take such a picture? How low could a person sink? But more important, how had it been taken? That was the damnable part. How the hell had it been taken?

He couldn’t tell which time it had been. He and Gloria made love almost every time they were together. But the lights were never on. If there was any light at all, it was just a dim glow from the hallway. Still, the picture was clear and sharp, as if it had been made in broad daylight or under bright floods.

That meant the photographer had used infrared. Which also meant he’d even known that Gloria insisted on having the lights off. And it followed that if he knew that much, he must have seen them making love before — not once, but several times!

The phone rang.

“Hello,” Bennett said quickly, snatching it up. “Who is it?”

Tom Ewing, a business acquaintance. Bennett tried to keep his voice normal, rational, tried to disguise his tenseness. Ewing asked if he was all right and he said he was fine, except for a slight headache. Nothing to worry about, just something he had eaten that didn’t agree with him. It would pass. A couple of aspirin would do the trick.

He hung up, and the intercom buzzed.

“Yes, Miss Madison, what is it?” he growled in exasperation.

“Mrs. Bennett to see you, sir.”

Stella? What the hell did she want? They hadn’t lived together, hadn’t even seen each other except in his lawyer’s office, ever since he’d found out that she married him strictly for his bank account.

“Tell her I’m not interested,” he said. Then, quickly, “No, send her in. I’ll see her for a few minutes.”

Stella always looked like something out of the fashion magazines: prim and precise, perfectly coiffed, a walking mannequin as cold and chiseled as a marble statue. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met or even seen. That was something he couldn’t take from her. But she was cold, impenetrable, immovable. A complete bitch.

She came through the door in a little number whipped up by Ceil Chapman, a beautiful but frigidly impersonal smile on her lips.

“Hello, Norman. I hope you don’t mind my coming up without an appointment.”

“If it matters,” he said, “I do. What do you want?”

She sat down in the club chair opposite his desk, crossed her legs, smoothed the dress over her lovely knees. “You don’t have to be so abrupt. Aren’t you surprised to see me?”

“I’m surprised, but not overjoyed. What do you want?” he asked again.

“I thought we might talk for a few minutes.”

“About what? We’ve said everything that needs saying.”

“Have we?” She opened her handbag and took out a package of cigarettes. An imported brand, of course. Stella did not believe in having anything common. Her smile stretched a bit wider and she touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. “Suppose I told you we’ve got a lot to talk about, a lot more than you could possibly realize.”

Bennett said nothing, but his mind worked feverishly. Was it possible that Stella had mailed him the picture and was working up to it gradually? That was just the kind of thing she would do, it was just the kind of conniving trick she would pull.

“Suppose I told you that I’ve had a detective following you,” she went on. “Suppose I told you I know you’ve been seeing another woman. A cheap trollop named Gloria Meade.”

“All right,” he said quickly, “suppose I have? You and I haven’t been together for months, and I couldn’t just hibernate. This may come as a shock to you, but I’m human.”

Stella lighted her cigarette, inhaled deeply, let a thin trickle of smoke drift from her nostrils. Her face was inscrutable. “Are you in love with her?”

“Yes,” he said. “I love her the way I thought I loved you. Only this time there’s no mistake. She loves me too, and she’s a fine and decent girl.”

“Are you sure of that?”

He looked at her steadily, his eyes cold. “Get to the point, Stella. I’m not in the mood for games.”

Her smile suddenly vanished. “You’re a fool to think you could keep a thing like that secret.” Her voice was like iced satin. “It’s going to cost you another twenty-five thousand dollars, or I’ll enter a countersuit and name her as corespondent.”

He breathed silently in relief. Stella hadn’t had anything to do with the picture. If she had, she wouldn’t be talking in what to her were small figures. She would have demanded everything and wouldn’t have settled for less.

“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell my lawyer.”

She shook her head slowly, the smile returning, her eyes gleaming in satisfaction. “You won’t tell anybody, Norman. I don’t want any income tax problems. I want this in cash, with no records anywhere on your books. Understand?”

He nodded in agreement, trying to indicate defeat when he actually felt elation. “All right. In cash.”

She mashed out her cigarette in an ashtray and stood up. “You realize you’re getting off easy,” she said. “I could have made you pay a great deal more.”

“I know,” he said. “You’re a wonderful girl, Stella. Everybody knows how generous and thoughtful you are.” He said it straight, but he knew she was shrewd enough to feel the sarcasm.

Bennett did not go out to lunch. He remained in his office, waiting for the phone call. He had lost most of his nervousness now. He was still in a tough spot, but he would be able to work out of it.

At two-fifteen the phone rang. A deep masculine voice said, “Norman Bennett?”

“Yes.” There was something in the man’s voice, some tonal quality, that told him this was the call he had been expecting.

“You got a photograph in the morning mail. Did you recognize the people in it?”

“I recognized them,” Bennett said. “How much for the negative?”

“Fifty thousand,” the voice said. “No bills larger than twenties.”

“All right,” Bennett said without hesitation. “Where, and when?”

“You’ve got an account at the First National, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll pick you up in front of the bank at three o’clock sharp.”

“I might have trouble getting that much money so quickly.”

“You’ll have more trouble if you don’t get it,” the man said harshly. Then he hung up.

Bennett waited inside the bank until the hands on the electric wall clock pointed to one minute before three. Then he stepped through the polished brass and glass doors and walked to the curb, a leather satchel in his hand. A taxi pulled over and the rear door opened.

“Get in,” said the man in the cab. He was big, stocky, with a hard face, piercing eyes under heavy brows. After Bennett sat next to him he said, “You got it all?”

Bennett nodded. “I’ve got it.”

The man smiled, showing strong teeth. “That’s smart. I didn’t think you’d want any trouble.” He turned to the driver. “The Atlas Hotel, Mac,” he said.

“Why a hotel?” Bennett asked. “Can’t we take care of everything right here?”

The man grunted disdainfully. “You think I’m a fool? I don’t have the negative with me. And I want to count that stuff you’ve got in your bag. I don’t take chances. Not a single damn chance.”

The Atlas Hotel was a rundown third-class joint off Eighth Avenue. The man whisked Bennett past the desk and into the elevator and told the operator the fifth floor. They rode up without speaking and got out when the car stopped. They walked down the hall, and the man opened the door leading to the stairs.

“Where to now?” Bennett asked, puzzled.

“Down one flight.”

“The room’s not on this floor?”

“That’s right. I told you, I don’t take chances. And I had somebody else rent the room for me, just in case you try to pull a funny act.”

They went down to the fourth floor and out into the hall, the man still remaining behind Bennett. “It’s four-o-three,” he said. “The door’s unlocked.”

Bennett opened the door to 403 and went in. The room was small and dingy. A sagging bed, scarred furniture, a threadbare rug on the floor. The bathroom door was partly open.

The man put the chain on the door, then said, “All right, let’s see the color of your money. Dump it on the bed.”

Bennett unlatched his satchel and spilled out the neat bundles of green. The man walked to the other side of the bed, picked up each bundle and examined it carefully.

“It’s all there,” Bennett said. “I kept my part of the bargain, now you keep yours.”

The man pulled the spread back from the bed, took an envelope from beneath one of the pillows. He tossed it on the bed.

“I promised the negative. There it is.”

Bennett slipped the film from the envelope, looked at it briefly in the light from the window. Satisfied, he struck a match and touched it to the celluloid. It blazed fiercely, and he dropped it in an ashtray. A moment later nothing remained except brittle ashes.

“Now we’re both satisfied,” the man said, starting to put the bundles of money back into the satchel. But suddenly he stopped. Bennett was pointing a gun at him.

“Not so fast,” he said quietly. “I got what I wanted, but you haven’t got a damn thing. I came in with that money, and I’m going out with it.”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the gun. “You think you’ll get away with a rumble like this?” he said.

Bennett smiled. “I don’t think, I know.”

“Then you’re not as smart as I thought. You’re not smart at all. I told you I don’t take chances. I’ve still got a few prints from that negative. How’d you like me to show them to your wife?”

Bennett’s smile widened. “Don’t try to take me for a sucker. I’ve heard all the dodges. You don’t have any other prints.”

The man shrugged. “Okay, have it your way.” He nonchalantly stuffed the rest of the bundles into the satchel, snapped it shut, picked it up in both hands. “So take your dough. I don’t want it. As of now, my price is double.”

The man was too cool, too calm, too sure of himself. Bennett began to think that perhaps it hadn’t been very smart to bring a gun after all. Perhaps the man wasn’t lying. Perhaps he did have—

Suddenly the satchel was flying at him. He saw it coming and ducked aside. But then something happened he hadn’t intended. In voluntarily, his finger tightened on the trigger and the gun exploded.

The man stood still for a moment, a terrible grin of shock and pain on his face. Then, slowly, he fell forward, collapsing across the bed. He was dead before the springs squealed from his weight.

Bennett’s mouth dropped open in horror. He had brought the gun merely as a threat, not as a weapon. He would have given the man the money without a word if he’d realized that anything like this was going to happen. But now that it had happened, he had to get out — he had to run.

He shoved the pistol back under his belt and picked up the satchel. Thank God no one had seen him with the man, he thought. He hurried across the room, took the chain off the door, went out.

His mind was racing. He had to get out of the hotel without being seen. He couldn’t chance going down in the elevator. The operator might remember that he and the dead man had gone up together. There was a good chance that the operator wouldn’t remember his face after just that one time, but Bennett knew he couldn’t let him take a second look.

He walked down the stairs. Slowly, taking his time, saving his strength in case he needed it for a mad dash. He opened the lobby door a crack and peered out. The elevator door was closed, the desk clerk was nowhere in sight. He stepped out and slipped from the lobby to the sidewalk.

Bennett was close to collapse when he arrived at his apartment. But he was positive he had been careful enough to avoid detection. No one would remember seeing him with the dead man, and he had left nothing in the apartment, not even fingerprints, to give the police a clue. He would dispose of his gun in the garbage and redeposit the money in a few days. Then life would go on as usual. He was completely in the clear. It was a wonderful feeling.

The phone rang shrilly, startling him. It was Gloria.

“I got the negative and paid him off,” he told her. “Everything is fine now.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I told you there wasn’t anything to worry about.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Norman,” she said. “There’s a lot to worry about. More than before.”

He was puzzled. “What the devil are you talking about? I told you I paid him off.”

“But you didn’t say how, darling,” she said softly. “But I know. I was in the bathroom. You should see the new pictures I took. Wonderful photography. I’ll send you a print in the morning. But they’re terribly expensive. I’m afraid there’s not going to be any money at all left for poor Stella!”