1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place (6 page)

“You know this article about Schultz,” I said. “It was Wally's special thing. It's all tied up and in proof. I've been thinking about it. Look, Max, what happened to Wally could happen to you and me. My thinking tells me that we should drop the Schultz article until we have handled Hammond. We could need police protection, and if we publish this article about Schultz that's the last thing we're going to get.”

He rubbed his flat nose with his thumb.

“Police protection? How can they protect us?”

“They can give us gun permits. Chandler could swing that.”

He grinned.

“I don't need a gun.” And he looked down at his big hands now into fists.

“Three toughs could take care of you, Max. You're not Superman.”

He shrugged.

“Okay. I'll leave it to you. I'm going after Hammond.”

He got to his feet. “I'll be in after lunch,” and he left.

I looked across the smog and saw the lights were blazing in Chandler's penthouse office. I hesitated for only a moment. This could be the means of relieving the pressure.

I called Chandler's secretary.

“Could I come over?” I said. “I want an important word with Mr. Chandler.”

“Hold it.” A pause then she said, “If you will come right away. He's due off for Washington in an hour.”

I got over there - you could call it dangerous driving - in five minutes.

Chandler was at his desk, a stuffed briefcase by his feet, a dust coat and his hat on a chair.

“What is it, Steve?” he said as I came in. “I'm just off. I've a session with the President. I could have something for you when I get back.”

Carefully choosing my words, I explained that in view of the attack on Wally, and because I thought the attack could have come via the City Hall with Hammond behind it, I thought we should hold back our attack on Schultz.

“Once that article is printed, we will get no support from the police,” I concluded. “Right now, we need their support if we're to find out who was behind the attack. Also, Mr. Chandler, this could happen again. I can't produce your magazine from a hospital bed. I want a pistol permit and one for Berry. This could turn into a fighting war. Unless Schultz cooperates, we could be in bad trouble.”

Chandler regarded mc from under his hooded lids.

“Have you anything to replace the Schultz article?”

“A mass of good stuff. I would run the facts on the new birth pill.”

A pause, then he nodded.

“I hate letting that sonofabitch off the hook, but what you say makes sense. Okay, drop it from this issue. Maybe next month, huh?”

“Yes.”

Again he regarded me.

“So you think Hammond was behind this attack on Wally?”

“It looks like it.”

His secretary put her head around the door.

“Your car is waiting, Mr. Chandler.”

“Tell Borg to fix pistol permits for Steve and Berry. Tell him to get them automatics.” Chandler got to his feet.

“We'll talk this over when I get back.” This to me.

I helped him on with his dustcoat. His secretary picked up his briefcase.

As we walked from his office, he asked, “How's Linda?”

I wondered how he would react if I told him I had given her a black eye. Instead, I said, “She's fine, thank you.”

We moved onto the long corridor.

“I hear Webber had a break in last night,” I said casually. “He has lost some files.”

The great man didn't break his step.

“Yeah . . . some nut.” He glanced my way. “Something in it?”

“I wouldn't know. I thought it odd Webber didn't call the police.”

“The police? What use are they?” I could see his thoughts were far away. He was probably rehearsing what he was going to say to the President.

He reached the block of elevators. A little man took the briefcase. He didn't exactly drop on his hands and knees and bang his head on the floor, but he conveyed that impression.

“See you, Steve.” Chandler punched me lightly on my shoulder. “We'll talk,” and he strode into the elevator.

His secretary and I watched him and the little man descend out of sight. Then she gave me a curt nod and walked back to her office.

I went over to another elevator and thumbed the button.

* * *

As I entered my office, Jean was by my desk, sorting through the mail I had already read.

“Hi, Jean! How's Shirley?”

“She's making out. Wally is still in a coma, but they don't seem worried about him. Shirley is back home. And Linda?”

“She's in good hands.” I went around my desk and sat down. I looked at her. Standing near me, upright, a bunch of letters in her hand, she looked very capable. She was wearing a grey and white dress that suited her. Her dark hair was glossy. For the first time I noticed she was wearing a white gold watch with a white gold bracelet. I suddenly realised I was noticing things about her that were new to me: like her watch, the cut of her dress, the silkiness of her hair, like her calm, intelligent eyes.

A pause while we looked at each other, then she said, “Do you want to go through the mail now?”

“I've been through it. There's nothing you can't handle.”

I hesitated, then said, “Sit down. The day's started badly. Feel like listening?”

She put the letters on my desk and sat down.

“Badly?”

I told her about Webber's telephone call, that Mayhew couldn't advance me more than five thousand. I told her about my brief talk with Lucilla Bower, that she had told me she had beaten Gordy down and had paid for the damaging strip of film. I went on to tell her I had persuaded Chandler to drop the Schultz article and to give Max and myself pistol permits.

She listened, her face tense.

“Well, that's it,” I concluded. “The door looks shut. I can't understand Webber. It could be his wife has been stealing and he is laying off Gordy. Chandler, of course, is too busy to bother. If Webber told him the files meant nothing and some nut broke in, why should Chandler think otherwise? But this really bothers me, Jean. I imagined I could rely on Webber. Now I can't. It looks as if I've got to raise fifteen thousand dollars somehow to keep Linda out of this mess.”

“Why not try to stall Gordy?” Jean said quietly. “So far, you've gained time: gain some more time.” She pointed to the telephone. “Call him and tell him you must have more time to pay. You could still come up with something that could fix him.”

“Without Webber on my side, I can't see how I can.”

“Perhaps Gordy's file is still Webber's office. I could get at it.”

I stared at her.

“What do you mean?”

“I once did Mavis Sherman, his secretary, a great favour. She will do anything for me. Try to persuade Gordy to wait a couple of days.”

I picked up the receiver and asked Judy to get me Jesse Gordy of the Welcome Self-service store and then I hung up.

“How did you help Mavis Sherman?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“That's not your business, is it, Steve? So many people, these days, get into trouble. When I can help, I help.” She lifted her hands and dropped them into her lap. “One day - who knows ? - someone could help me.”

The telephone bell rang.

“Mr. Gordy on the line, Mr. Manson,” Judy told me.

“Mr. Gordy?”

“Yes, Mr. Manson. How are you?” The sneer in his voice was unmistakable.

“I will have to postpone our little transaction. In two days, there will be no problem, but right now there is a problem.”

“Is that right? I too have problems. Let us discuss our joint problems tonight as arranged at nine o'clock. You remember the address: 189, Eastlake? A token could make me reasonable,” and he hung up.

Jean had been listening in on the extension. We both faced each other as we replaced the receivers.

“I’ll take Mavis to lunch,” she said, getting to her feet.

“The birth pill article is in proof. I'll get it down to the printers.”

The telephone bell rang. It was Marvin Goodyear who wrote our travel page. From then on until lunchtime I hadn't a minute to think of my own problems. I had lunch with Jeremy Rafferty, our film and theatre critic. Not paying much attention, I half listened to him expound while we ate the businessman's lunch. Every now and then, he would pause in his monologue - Jeremy was a non-stop talker - and regard me. Finally, he said, “I get the idea I'm not making an impact, Steve. Are you sickening for something?”

“I've got Wally on my mind,” I said, which wasn't true.

He shook his head.

“A terrible thing. Some muggers after drug money. It could happen to any of us. Now, look, suppose I do a piece about the danger of our streets, hooking it up with the violence of films?”

“Sure. Send me an outline.” I waved to the waiter for the bill.

“Man! You sound as enthusiastic as a dowager of eighty offered sex.”

As I paid the bill, I said, “What do you know about the sex lives of eighty-year-old dowagers?”

He laughed, thanked me for the lunch and took himself off. I drove over to my bank and presented a cheque for three thousand dollars. The teller beamed at me, said how much he liked the last issue of
The Voice of the People
, then excused himself as he disappeared into Ernie Mayhew's office. Ernie must have given him the green light for he came back and paid out three hundred crisp ten-dollar bills.

I put them in my billfold and drove back to the office, wondering if three thousand dollars would be Gordy's idea of a token payment.

Jean was still at lunch. I called the hospital and was told Wally was still in a coma. I then called Lucilla.

“The poor darling is feeling very low,” Lucilla drawled.

“I don't think it would be considerate to get her out of bed to talk to you. Her eye is quite bad.”

“Then let us be considerate,” I said and hung up.

Jean came in.

“I think I've got it fixed. Unless Gordy's file has been destroyed. Mavis will give us a photocopy. She says there was no breakin last night. As soon as Webber leaves, she'll check the files.”

“When does he leave?”

“Around 19.00. Mavis has the keys. She'll telephone me as soon as she gets it.”

“If I can get it before I see Gordy, I could have a lever.”

“If it's there, you'll get it.”

“Thanks, Jean. I've got three thousand dollars for Gordy. I called the hospital.”

“So did I and I talked to Shirley. She's bearing up. She tells me Brenner has been to see her. She gave nothing away. Brenner now thinks it was a mugging.”

“It could just possibly be.”

“Well, to work. You have the leader to write, Steve. My desk is loaded.”

When she had gone, I pulled my IBM Executive towards me. The leader was about the dollar devaluation. I was in no mood to write sense, but somehow, after littering the floor with crumpled paper, I got something down on paper that did make sense.

The rest of the afternoon rushed away with telephone calls, three contributors with ideas, two bad, one good.

While I was dictating to my Grundig, the intercom buzzed.

I flicked down the switch.

“Mr. Borg is here, Mr. Manson,” Judy told me.

Joe Borg was Chandler's dog-of-all-work. He handled anything that was tricky and I knew him to be a top-class man with a salary that made my thirty thousand a year peanuts. But he had a hell of a job that would have given me ulcers.

“Send him in.”

Borg breezed in. He was short, thin, dark, around forty years of age. His eyes were like tiny black buttons and his mouth wore a perpetual grin.

“Hi, Steve!” He closed the door and coming to my desk, he put down a square carton. “Armaments for you and Max. There are pistol permits and two boxes of slugs.” He eyed me. “Don't go killing people, Steve.”

“That's quick work, Joe. Thanks.”

“When the boss says so, it is so.” Again he eyed me.

“Watch it, buddy. Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.” He screwed his face into a comical grimace.

“Now who said that?” He started for the door. “I've got a date with a hot piece of tail who cools fast if she's kept waiting,” and he was gone.

I took from the carton two .38 police automatics with shoulder holsters and two boxes of cartridges. The permits were made out in my name and Max's name. I stood up, took off my jacket and put on the shoulder holster. I had been in the Vietnam war and I knew about guns. I checked the automatic, found it worked well, then loaded the gun.

One thing I was determined about, it wouldn't be my fault if I landed up in hospital.

I put the gun in the holster, stood away from my desk and did five experimental draws. The gun came from the holster each time smoothly and fast. Satisfied, I took off the holster and put the set-up in my desk drawer. Then I called Max at his home address. There was no answer. Max lived on his own. He was one of those men who didn't want to be tied to one woman. He flirted around and was happy that way.

As I replaced the receiver, Jean came in.

“Mavis has just telephoned . . . no luck. Gordy's file has gone missing.”

I sat behind my desk.

“Can you make sense of this, Jean? Webber told me he had a file on Gordy. Now this lie about a breakin: now no “I can only guess. Either he is being blackmailed by Gordy or someone with influence has persuaded him to lay off.”

“Who?”

She thought, frowning.

“Who has been stealing from the store?” she asked finally. “According to Wally, Sally Latimer, Mabel Creeden and Lucilla Bower. I don't know any of these women. Do you?”

Mark Creeden immediately jumped into my mind. He owned the biggest house on the Eastlake estate. He was the President of the Howarth Production Corporation: a big wheel, the most important man on the estate. His wife, twenty years his junior, was inclined to act regally, as he did, and the women on the estate didn't go for her, including Linda.

Creeden had enough pull and enough money to put Webber in his pocket. But why should he want Gordy's file destroyed? What could be in it to cause a man like Creeden trouble? Thinking about it, I decided I liked Webber better for being anxious to keep Gordy under cover. It could be his wife, Hilda, had been stealing.