James Chase - A Can of Worms

“Come the day,” Gloria said as she began to read my report.

I left her and went along to Edward’s office. There I collected my month’s salary, plus vacation money. I was rich again!

Back in my office, I found Chick waiting. As soon as I entered, he held out his hand. I returned the $50 he had lent me.

“Where are you going?” he asked as he stowed the bill away.

“I can’t afford to go anywhere. I’ll chat up the dolly birds and generally relax,” I said. “Think of me. If I see you, slogging at work, I’ll buy you a drink.”

Chick grinned.

“After borrowing the dough from me.” He got to his feet. “I guess I’ll get home. Have a ball, Bart, but don’t spend all your money.”

“Just some of it,” I said, and sitting down at my desk, I reached into the drawer for the Scotch. “A drink before you go?”

“Gotta date,” Chick said. He started for the door, then paused. “I was forgetting. Got something for you. Came in about a couple of hours ago from the FBI.” He produced a sealed envelope. “What’s Coldwell writing to you about?”

I took the envelope.

“Vacation plans,” I said. “He promised to send me the dope on renting a boat.”

Chick shrugged.

“Don’t get drowned,” then he left.

I regarded the envelope, puzzled, then I opened it. There was a brief note and a mug shot of a woman. The note ran: I promised to let you have this photo of Aldo Pofferi’s wife, Lucia Pofferi. Keep an eye out for her. Lu.

I picked up the mug shot and looked at it. It showed a blonde woman of around twenty-four or five who stared at me from the photograph with hard, vicious eyes.

I felt an explosive shock run through me. If this woman hadn’t been blonde, I would have sworn she was Nancy Hamel! With unsteady fingers, I picked up a felt pen and inked the hair black. Again I stared at the mug shot.

I had no doubt now.

This woman, wanted on two murder charges and married to one of the most dangerous Italian terrorists was Nancy Hamel!

Fanny Battley, the night clerk in charge of The Paradise City Herald’s morgue, looked up as I entered the big room, lined with folios containing the back editions of the newspaper, and steel cabinets containing a complete record of all the photographs that had appeared in the paper since its inception.

The Parnell operators often made use of the facilities of the morgue, and we were all well known to Fanny, a lively coloured girl, good at her job and always helpful.

“Hi, Bart! Don’t tell me you’re still working?” she said with a wide smile of welcome.

“Hi, Fan!” I came to rest at her desk. “I’m going on vacation tomorrow. I have one little job to clear up.”

“Lucky you! Where are you going?”

“Who wants to go anywhere but here? Look, honey, I need a little help. I want to know when and who to and where Russ Hamel, the author, married.”

“No problem. Sit down.” She waved to a desk. “I’ll bring you what we’ve got.”

That was the big thing about Fanny. She never asked questions.

I sat down, lit a cigarette and waited. She went nimbly through a big card index, then crossed over to one of the folios, dragged it out and dumped it on my desk.

“Have you any photographs of the happy pair?” I asked.

She produced an envelope from one of the steel cabinets and put it on the desk.

“That’s all we have, Bart.”

“Fine, Fan, and thanks.”

She went back to her desk and resumed card indexing.

I looked at the photographs. Russ Hamel turned out to be a square faced, heavily built man handsome with greying hair, and with that arrogant look of a rich man who is sure of his success. I concentrated on Nancy’s photographs. In all of them, she wore dark, goggle sunglasses that successfully screened her face. Anyone seeing her on the streets wouldn’t have known her by these photographs.

I read through the wedding account Interviewed, Hamel said he had met Nancy in Rome. There had been a whirlwind courtship, and they had married two months after their first meeting. Hamel said Nancy was too shy to comment, and he didn’t want her bothered.

I paused to check dates, and worked out that Hamel had me her eight months ago. I then remembered Coldwell had said she had begun criminal operations with Pofferi eighteen months ago. It occurred to me with feeling of shock, that she was married to Aldo Pofferi when he had married Hamel! Had she married Hamel to get out of Italy after her arrest and murderous escape? I liked this idea. Who would suspect the wife of Russ Hamel to be a wanted terrorist?

Satisfied there was nothing else in the article of any use to me, I carried the folio back to its shelf.

“Thanks Fan.” I gave her the envelope containing the photographs. “That about buttons it up. See you around,” and blowing her a kiss, I left her.

I sat in the Maser and considered my next move. Tomorrow, at midday, I was to meet Nancy at the Country Club. With my usual optimism I thought there was a slim chance of her producing the money but if she didn’t I was now in a very good position to put on the pressure. To tell her I could now prove she was Lucia Pofferi would surely produce the green.

This new information needed quiet and careful thought. I decided to return home, put my feet up and exercise my brain. I set the car in motion, and on the way, I stopped at a sandwich bar and bought a pack of sandwiches.

As I was turning onto the street, leading to my highrise, a small figure darted out of the shadows, frantically waving.

I stood on the brake pedal and the Maser squealed to a stop.

Joey appeared at my window.

“Don’t go home, Mr. Anderson,” he said urgently. “They are waiting for you.”

Behind me, a car hooted. Joey ran around the Maser, opened the passenger’s door and scrambled in beside me. I eased the car to the kerb.

“Gone to sleep, birdbrain?” the driver in the car behind me bawled, and drove on.

“What is it, Joey?” I asked.

“Diaz and Jones,” Joey said breathlessly. “I followed them. They went to your place. I saw a light flash on and off in your apartment. They are still there.”

I felt a prickly sensation run up my spine. Nancy had blown the whistle on me! She had gone to Diaz and told him I was twisting her arm! I remembered Al Barney’s warning to keep clear of Diaz and Jones. I broke out into a cold sweat.

Joey nudged me.

“I’m looking after you, Mr. Anderson,” he said.

“You can say that again, Joey. Stay still for a moment. I want to think.”

“I’m hungry, Mr. Anderson.”

I saw he had found the pack of sandwiches and was fondling it.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Just relax with the mouth.”

While he was munching, I considered what I was to do. I thought of Pete who had got too close to Diaz and had been ruthlessly wiped out. I remembered I had told Nancy that I had given a statement to my lawyer that would not only incriminate her, but give away Pofferi’s hiding place. Maybe Diaz thought I was bluffing and had moved into action. He would be right that I had been bluffing, so now I had to make the bluff stick. I would have to write a complete statement, including the fact that I knew Nancy was Pofferi’s wife. I would then show the statement to Diaz plus a receipt from my lawyer that the original statement was in his hands. In this way, and only this way, would I be able to draw Diaz’s teeth.

After further thought, I decided to go to my office and use my typewriter there. I was not, repeat not, returning to my apartment. The agency’s night guard would let me in and I could park the Maser in the underground garage, out of sight.