1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place (9 page)

“Ever heard of Jesse Gordy?”

“He's the manager of the Welcome store up the road.”

Brenner nodded.

“Yeah. Someone put a slug in him and that's the empty shell I found in the room where he died.”

I picked up the cartridge case and rolled it between my fingers. I was expecting him to snatch it away, but he made no move. I looked at him. His expression was blank.

“Isn't this called evidence?” I said.

“Yeah.”

I took out my handkerchief and carefully wiped the shell case, then still holding it in my handkerchief I set it on my desk.

“You will want it back.”

“You keep it. It's a present.” He paused, then went on, “Gordy is better out of the way.” His rat trap of a mouth curled into a grim smile. “If you haven't already done it get rid of your gun and report it stolen. By shooting that creep you have got a lot of guys off a hook.”

“What makes you think I shot him, Sergeant?”

“That cartridge case. It's a new issue. You got the first box. I have to keep track of minor things like that.”

“That still doesn't mean I shot him.”

“Tell that to the judge.” He started towards the door, paused, then said, “Watch it. Lieutenant Goldstein is handling the case. He's up there now, shooting off with his mouth. He could get around to you. I happened to have caught the squeal and I was the first to arrive. He likes me like you like cancer.”

“I didn't kill him.”

“So long as you can prove it to Goldstein, you didn't kill him.”

As he again started to the door, I said, “Sergeant. . .”

He paused to stare at me.

“You made a statement. I'll quote you: 'By shooting that creep you've got a lot of guys off the hook.' Does that include you?”

“Don't get smart, Manson. You could still be in trouble,” and he left me.

I sat there, staring at the shell case until I heard his car drive away, then I put the shell case in my pocket.

I remembered Webber had told me Brenner was crazy about his wife. Had she too been stealing from the Welcome store and had Gordy been blackmailing Brenner?

I thought of Lieutenant Abe Goldstein. He was an ambitious, clever cop. If he found the blackmail film, then I would be in real trouble, but so too could Creeden, Latimer and maybe Brenner.

Because I wanted to hear the sound of her voice, I called Jean. There was no answer. I went down to the boiler room and dropped the shell case into the furnace, then I returned to the living room. I called her number again. Still no answer. I smoked, thought and worried. Half an hour later, I called her again.

“Yes?”

The sound of her voice was to me like a shot in the arm.

“I've been trying to get you, Jean. I . . .”

“Not now. Tomorrow at the office.” Her voice sounded strained. “It's all right . . . you know what I mean. I've just been out. It's all right,” and she hung up.

I drew in a long, deep breath. She had got rid of the gun!

I stared into space, thinking.

Another long, lonely night stretched ahead of me.

***

I had just finished drinking coffee when I saw the newsboy on his bicycle toss the California Times on my stoop. I collected the paper and had to hunt for the account of Gordy's murder. I found it tucked away on page 3.

It merely stated that the manager of the Welcome Self-service had been found by his close friend, Miss Freda Hawes, shot to death. Lieutenant Abe Goldstein was in charge of the investigation. He said the shooting had taken place between 20.30 and 21.00 and appeared to be without a motive.

Obviously the
California Times
was little interested in the murder of Jesse Gordy.

Freda Hawes? A close friend?

How close and did she know Gordy was a blackmailer?

I looked at my watch. The time was 08.15. Time for me to get down to the police and report the loss of my gun. I paused long enough to go through, in my mind, the story I was to tell the police, then locking up, I got the car from the garage and drove into the city. I stopped on the way to buy cigarettes. I always got my cigarettes from the newsstand at the Imperial hotel as there was no parking problem. I was able to leave the car in the forecourt, go into the hotel, get my cigarettes without worrying about a ticket.

The fat good-natured woman who was in charge of the newsstand produced three packs of Winston as soon as she saw me.

“Morning, Mr. Manson,” she said. “I see you have some excitement up at Eastlake.”

“That's right.” I paid for the cigarettes. “This is a world of violence.”

“You can say that again.” She shook her head. “Are you going to write about this murder in your magazine?”

“I don't think so. There doesn't seem much information as yet.”

“The afternoon editions will have something more. I like an interesting murder case.”

In case the police checked my movements, I deliberately stood chatting to her, then abruptly broke off.

“Hey! I have work to do. We've been yakking for ten minutes!”

“So we have.” She laughed. “See you, Mr. Manson.”

I drove down to my office block.

Joey Small, the night man, was just leaving. Seeing me, he came over.

“Morning, Mr. Manson. See you have trouble up at Eastlake.”

“Yes.” I reached over the seat for my briefcase. “Always trouble for someone these days.”

“That's right.”

He yawned.

“Will you be working late tonight, Mr. Manson?”

“Could do.”

“I'll be seeing you then,” and he walked away.

I watched him out of sight, then I backed out of the parking bay and drove down to police headquarters.

The desk sergeant, Jack Franklin, was making motions with a yellow form and looking bored. He was a thickset, middle-aged man who, before his promotion and when he had been a traffic cop, had tried to nail me for dangerous driving. The charge had been thrown out and he had been reprimanded. He was no friend of mine.

When he saw me, his face hardened.

“Morning, Sergeant,” I said, coming to rest at his desk.

“You want something?”

“I'm reporting a gun stolen.” I took out my pistol permit and gave it to him. Pushing the end of a pencil into his left ear and twiddling it, he examined the permit, then looked at me.

“So?”

“I put the gun in my glove compartment when I left for home last night. I got to my office this morning, opened the glove compartment. . . no gun.”

He took the pencil from his ear, examined it, flicked off a little wax and drew a form towards him.

“Name and address?”

As soon as I said Eastlake, he stiffened.

“You live at Eastlake?”

“That’s what I'm telling you.”

“You're reporting the loss of a .38 automatic?”

“That's correct.”

He pointed a thick finger at a bench against the far wall.

“Sit over there.”

“I'm busy,” I said. “I'm reporting the gun as stolen. That's all I need do, isn't it?”

“You think so?” He snorted. “Sit over there!”

I didn't move. After glaring at me, he flicked down a switch on his intercom.

“Lieutenant? I have a man here who lives at Eastlake, reporting a .38 automatic stolen.”

A mild voice said, “Send him up please, Sergeant.”

Franklin pointed to a door.

“First floor: second door.”

I walked up concrete steps to a door. I knocked, turned the handle and walked in.

Lieutenant Abe Goldstein sat behind a small shabby desk in a small, shabbier room.

From time to time Linda and I had run into him at the Country club. He was one of the top-class bridge players there. He was a bachelor, and it was whispered that he was a queer, but those who knew him well said he had only two interests; police work and bridge. He was a man a little over forty years of age with steely grey eyes, a big, hooked nose and jet black hair, cut short. He had earned a reputation of being a shrewd, clever police officer without whom Chief of Police Schultz would have long been retired.

“Hello, Mr. Manson,” he said. “Is it you reporting a gun lost?”

“Hello, Lieutenant.” I advanced to his desk as he stood up. He waved me to a chair. We settled ourselves.

“How is Mrs. Manson?”

“She's okay. Look, Lieutenant, I should be at my desk right now so can we make this fast? I'm reporting the loss of a gun.” I gave him my pistol permit. While he was looking at it, I went on, “After Mitford had been attacked, Mr. Chandler thought I should carry a gun. It was delivered yesterday evening. When I left for home, I put the gun in the glove compartment of my car. I thought nothing more of it. Reaching my office this morning, I found it gone.”

He pulled a scratch pad towards him and picked up a pen. “Could we get this straight, Mr. Manson? What time did you leave your office last night?”

“Around 19.30.”

“You drove straight home?”

“No. I went to the Eat's bar across the street for a quick supper, then I drove home.”

“Don't you usually go home for supper?” He looked up, his pen hovering.

“Yes, but last night my wife was with a friend.”

“Your car was locked?”

“It wasn't. It was careless of me. I put the gun in the glove compartment, then walked over to the bar. I wanted to get home fast as I had work to do.”

“After the meal, you drove straight home?”

“That's right. I picked up some mail and drove over to Miss Bower's place where my wife was. I gave my wife her mail and talked. She and Miss Bower were driving to Dallas because my wife's mother is unwell. I then returned home.”

“You left your car outside Miss Bower's place?”

“Yes.”

“Unlocked?”

“Yes.”

“You got home at what time?”

“Just before nine, I think. I put the car in the garage, and then settled to work. This morning I drove to the Imperial hotel to get cigarettes. I left my car . . .”

“Unlocked?” Goldstein broke in.

“Yes. I arrived at my office, found the gun missing, so here I am.”

Goldstein examined his notes.

“So from the moment you put the gun in your glove compartment you left the car unlocked?”

“Yes. Stupid of me, Lieutenant, but I have lots of things on my mind and locking a car isn't one of them.”

He nodded.

“I can understand that. Your magazine is quite something. Well, let's just look at it. While you were having supper, the gun could have been stolen. While you were talking to your wife at Miss Bower's place, it could have been stolen. While you were buying cigarettes at the Imperial hotel, it could have been stolen.” He looked up. “Am I right?”

“Yes.”

He sat back.

“Stolen guns cause trouble for us, Mr. Manson.” He tapped his pen on his thumb nail, then said, “I'm investigating a murder: Jesse Gordy, a neighbour of yours. He was shot with a .38 automatic.” His steely grey eyes suddenly stared at me, but I knew this was coming and I kept my expression only half interest.

“I saw it in today's paper. I see what you mean about missing guns causing trouble,” I said. “I'm sorry to have been so careless.”

“How well did you know Gordy?”

It was my turn to stare at him.

“Is that the drift, Lieutenant? You think the stolen gun killed this man?”

He smiled.

“First, I have to be sure the gun has been stolen, then I'll have to be sure the gun killed Gordy. You haven't answered my question which was how well did you know Gordy?”

“Not at all. I never went to the store. Oddly enough, he came to see me two days ago. This was the first time I had set eyes on him.”

Goldstein inclined his head, his thin lips pursing.

“He came to your home?”

“He came to my office. He was interested to know about our advertising rates and whether I could send one of my reporters to write up his store. I explained we didn't take that kind of advertising nor would we be interested in writing up his store.”

“He called on you?”

“Yes.”

“Couldn't he have telephoned? It's quite a trip from his store to your office.”

“I do it every day and think nothing of it.”

“Yes.” A long pause, then he said, “I am investigating a murder. Since you are here and since you own - or owned, I should say - a .38 automatic, could you tell me what you were doing between 20.00 and 21.00 last night.”

I was aware my hands were damp now, but I still kept a deadpan expression.

“I thought I made that clear. I was talking to my wife at Miss Bower's home around 20.15. I returned to my home around 21.00 and I worked until 23.30, then I went to bed.”

“Apart from seeing your wife, did you meet any of your neighbours?”

“A little after 20.00 as I was leaving for home I ran into Harry Mitchell whom you know. We talked for a few minutes. After I left my wife, I met Frank Latimer whom you also know and had a word with him. That would be around 21.00.”

“No one else?”

Here was the crunch. If Creeden had told Goldstein or would tell him we had met on East Avenue I would be in trouble.

“No one else.”

Goldstein put down his pen.

“Thank you, Mr. Manson.” As I began to get up, he raised his hand. “May I take up a little more of your time? I have a lot of respect for your magazine and that means respect for your brains. This is an odd murder. Gordy wasn't anything special. I am asking myself why someone should walk into his house and kill him. On the face of it, there appears to be no motive.” He stared at me. “You see my problem? Why should anyone want to kill this man?”

“I have no idea.” I got to my feet.

“You talked to Gordy. What kind of man would you say he was?”

I wasn't to be drawn.

“As you said: nothing special.”

He stared thoughtfully at me.

“Could you enlarge on that?”

“To me he had no personality. Maybe he was competent in his job. I was busy and his proposition didn't interest me so he didn't interest me.”

“I understand.” He paused, then went on, “His hobby seemed to be photography. He had a well-equipped dark room and a sophisticated enlarger. What surprises me is this, Mr. Manson: although he had this equipment there were no specimens of his work in the house. You follow me?” He rubbed his hooked nose. “Here was a man with an obvious hobby and one would expect to find some photographs, wouldn't you?”