James Chase - A Can of Worms

She looked up then. Her eyes were like holes in a white sheet.

I took the two letters from my wallet, took them from their envelopes and placed them on the table.

She picked them up. The blue tinted paper rustled in her trembling fingers. I lit a cigarette and waited. I had all the time in the world. A setup like this should never be hurried. I didn’t watch her, but shifted my eyes to an elderly couple who had sat down, four tables away. The woman, nudging sixty, was a dyed blonde. She had crushed her fat into a bikini. The man was dyed black. He had breasts like a woman, and body hair a chimp might envy.

People! I thought. The Oldies! They hang on with grim tenacity. The graveyard is around the corner, but they stay in the ring, feebly punching.

Nancy laid the letters back on the table.

“My husband wrote those letters,” she said. “Waldo Carmichael is the name of his leading character in the book he is now writing.”

I gaped at her. For a long moment, I sat as still as she was sitting. Then I pulled myself together.

“Mrs. Hamel... there must be some mistake.”

“There is no mistake. My husband uses this notepaper. I recognize the typing. He wrote these letters.”

“But why?”

She looked directly at me.

“He wanted an excuse to hire a detective.”

I got back on even keel. He wanted an excuse to hire a detective. My brain raced. Could be, but why have his wife watched?

I picked up the letters, folded them and put them back in my wallet, my brain still racing. I was aware she was now watching me. I kept my expression deadpan.

“There are complications, Mrs. Hamel,” I said finally. “As I told you, I am in a quandary. I have been watching you for the past four days. I am supposed to turn in a report, covering your movements at the end of the week.”

Still very tense, she looked straight at me.

“What complications?” she asked, her voice husky. “Send in your report. It can contain nothing that would upset my husband,” and she made a move to get up.

“Don’t go, Mrs. Hamel,” I said. “Two days ago, I followed you in your yacht in a chopper to the pirates’ islands.”

She closed her eyes and her hands turned into fists.

“So you see, Mrs. Hamel, I am in a quandary,” I went on, watching her. “I came across Aldo Pofferi, a wanted murderer, on the island. You and your crewman, Jones, got Pofferi and his wife off the island. I even know where they are hiding. If I turned in a report covering these facts, don’t you think your husband would be upset?”

She sat still, looking down at her clenched fists. She sat like that for several minutes while I waited. I could afford to give her plenty of time to think what to do. I knew I had her over a barrel. This wasn’t the moment to put on pressure. I wanted her to come to the right decision without a nudge from me.

Finally, she said, “Are you sending in this report?”

“That’s just it, Mrs. Hamel. That’s why I am in a quandary. Look at it from my angle.” I paused to give her my friendly, understanding smile. “Mr. Hamel hires me or rather, he hires the Agency I work for. It is going to cost him money. I’m just one of twenty detectives paid by the Agency, and paid badly. Although the Agency regards Mr. Hamel as their client, there is no need for me to regard him as my client. Frankly, Mrs. Hamel, I don’t approve of husbands who distrust their wives. Unfortunately for me, because I have to earn a living, I have to do what I am told by my Agency.” I paused to put on my worried, depressed expression. “So now, perhaps, you see my quandary.”

She looked away from me.

“I think so,” she said. “Go on.”

“Well, that’s really it, Mrs. Hamel. I have two reports: either of them I could give Mr. Hamel. The first one will satisfy him that he has started something he should never have even contemplated.”

I took the two reports from my wallet and handed her the first one which stated that I had followed her for four days and had found she was leading a blameless existence. She read it.

“And the other one?”

I gave it to her. It was in detail: the pirates’ island, Aldo Pofferi, and who he was. Josh Jones. The Alameda bar.

This time I watched her. As she read, her face became whiter, and her hands were shaking when she put the report down on the table.

“What am I to do, Mrs. Hamel?” I asked. “You must understand that I should give Mr. Hamel this second report. If I don’t, I could lose my job, and frankly, I can’t afford to lose my job. I would like to be helpful. As I’ve said, I don’t approve of husbands distrusting their wives. But there it is. . my quandary.”

She sat still, again staring down at her hands. I waited, but as she said nothing, I decided to help her.

“Of course, if you hired me to look after your interests, Mrs. Hamel, I would be relieved of my quandary. I would no longer be working for Mr. Hamel. I could be working for you. I would then send in the first report without any problems... if I were working for you.”

She moved, then looked up from her hands, but not at me.

“I understand,” she said. “Would you work for me?”

Nearly home, I told myself. Like any sale, the payoff hinged on the price. We hadn’t got that far, but we were nearing it.

“I would be happy to, Mrs. Hamel.” I even surprised myself how sincere I sounded.

“What would your services entail?” She was now looking steadily at me. The cold, contemptuous expression in her eyes slightly dented my ego.

“Well, of course, Mr. Hamel would receive the first, negative report and not the second damaging report,” I said. “Then I would, if Mr. Hamel was still not satisfied, give him more negative reports until he was satisfied.”

She waited. I waited. I had to hitch my smile into place.

“That’s it, Mrs. Hamel,” I said finally, because the silence and the way she was looking at me began to nibble at my nerves.

“Naturally, you would expect to be paid to work for me,” she said.

Well, here it was: the payoff.

“This would be a business transaction, Mrs. Hamel. Yes, I would expect to be paid. I have to live. If it ever got out that I had turned in a false report, I would be in trouble.” I hitched up the smile. “I have a licence. Frankly, that’s about all I do have. To work for you, Mrs. Hamel, would be putting my licence on the line. If I lost that, I would be out in the cold, cold world. That is, no other agency would employ me. So...I would be taking a considerable risk if I worked for you.”

“What would I have to pay?” Her voice was low and her eyes narrowed. “Although my husband is wealthy, I have very little personal money.”

I put my smile to bed and gave her, instead, my cop stare.

“Mrs. Hamel, by associating with Italian terrorists, wanted for at least five murders, you have placed yourself in jeopardy. You should have considered the consequences before you opted to give them sanctuary. Why you did this is not my business. You could be arrested and charged with accessory to murder. By helping you, I could also be charged as an accessory. I am offering my help. The payoff is one hundred thousand dollars.”

She reared back as if I had struck her.

“One hundred thousand dollars!” Her voice quivered. “I couldn’t possibly pay such a sum!”

“Those are my terms, Mrs. Hamel. It is up to you to find the money,” I said, still giving her my cop stare. “A woman married to a man as rich as Russ Hamel should be able to raise one hundred thousand dollars. Don’t tell me your husband hasn’t given you expensive presents. Look around: hock something. You have until the end of the week. On Saturday morning, I am sending my report to Mr. Palmer. It is up to you if the report is negative or not. Meet me here this time on Friday with the money. If you are not here, Mr. Palmer gets the second report on Saturday morning.” I got to my feet, then paused. “Oh, one other thing, Mrs. Hamel. Don’t go running to Pofferi. He is a killer. I’m not scared of him, but I have been in the racket long enough to take precautions. A copy of the second report is with my attorney. If anything happens to me, the cops will get it. I assure you, ten years in jail isn’t worth one hundred thousand dollars.”