James Chase - A Can of Worms

“Okay, Joey,” I said. “You get back and watch. When they leave, call me.”

I gave him my business card.

With his mouth full, he nodded, staring hard at me with his bright, little eyes. I took the hint and gave him a $20 bill. He grinned, slid out of the car and was away.

Jackson, the Agency’s night guard, opened the door after I had rung a couple of times.

“Have you forgotten something, Mr. Anderson,” he asked as I stepped around him and into the reception lobby.

“Clearing my desk,” I said. “I’m going on vacation tomorrow.”

“Have a good time, Mr. Anderson.”

I hope so, I thought. Man! I hope so!

It took me close on two hours to get my statement right, and I made three copies. I then went along to the typist pool and ran off three photocopies of the mug shots of Pofferi and Nancy, Coldwell had given me.

Returning to my office, I pinned the mug shots to the copies of the statement, then put them in separate envelopes On each envelope, I typed: To be handed to Chief of Police Terrell in the event of my death or if I go missing.

I then found a larger envelope and put the envelope containing the top copy of my statement, plus the original mug shots into the larger envelope. I addressed the envelope to Howard Selby, a smart attorney with whom the Agency often did business and who was a good friend of mine. I then wrote him a letter, telling him I was on to a dangerous gang and was collecting evidence against them. I wanted him to keep the enclosed envelope (unopened) until I had completed my case. I had been threatened, so I was taking out insurance by giving him half the evidence. I concluded by saying if he heard of my death or that I had gone missing, he was to give the envelope to Chief of Police Terrell. I wanted a letter from him stating these facts and this letter must reach me at my home address by special messenger before midday tomorrow.

Selby had offices on the fifth floor of the Trueman building. I took the elevator down and put the letter in his mailbox, then returned to my office.

The nightguard watched these manoeuvres with a blank stare, but he kept from asking questions.

I sat again behind my desk and managed to grin. At least, I was nearly safe. I put the second envelope between the pages of Robertson’s Law Index and the book into my Scotch bottle drawer. Seeing there was still some Scotch left, I made myself a drink. The third envelope I put in my wallet.

As I sipped my drink, my thoughts turned once again to owning one hundred thousand dollars. Would Nancy be at the Country Club tomorrow at midday? I rather doubted it. She had gone to Diaz for help. His immediate reaction was to go to my apartment and wait for me. Was he waiting with a gun or waiting to do a deal?

I finished my drink and was considering pouring another when my telephone came alive.

Joey said, “They left five minutes ago, Mr. Anderson, and are heading back to the Alameda.”

“Thanks, Joey. Get some sleep. How’s Jimbo?”

“He’s watching the Alameda, Mr. Anderson.”

“Keep watching, Joey. If you have news, call me at my apartment.”

“Yes Mr. Anderson,” and he rang off.

I now needed some sleep. I said goodnight to the night guard, went down to the garage and drove home.

Not a bad day’s work, I thought, as I let myself into my apartment. Tomorrow would be the crunch.

Looking around, I found nothing had been disturbed. There was some cigar ash on the carpet, but otherwise I wouldn’t have known Diaz and Jones had been here.

Tomorrow! I had already decided what I would do. I was very confident. I shot the bolt on the front door and headed for my bedroom.

I could almost hear the rustle of the green stuff: my idea of sweet music.

I came awake with a start. Someone was ringing on my front door bell. Cursing, I levered myself out of bed and looked blearily at my watch. The time was 10.35.

I called through the door: “Who is it?”

“From Mr. Selby,” a girl’s voice said.

I opened up and accepted an envelope from one of Selby’s clerks. She was the mousey type who expected to be raped at any moment. She gave me a scared stare and retreated.

I opened the envelope and took out the letter:

Dear Bart Anderson,

This acknowledges that I have an envelope from you on which is written: “To be handed to the Chief of Police Terrell in the event of my death or if I go missing.”

I have arranged for the envelope’s safekeeping, and will follow out your instructions.

Yours etc.

Humming under my breath, I put the letter on my desk, then went into the kitchen and made coffee. I felt I had taken out all the insurance I needed.

At 11.30, shaved, showered and wearing my fancy cream and blue striped suit, I locked up my apartment and went down to the Maser.

I drove to the Country Club, parked and wandered into the spacious lobby. The time now was 11.55. I asked the porter if Mrs. Hamel had arrived.

“No, sir, not yet,” he told me.

I sat down where I could see the entrance, lit a cigarette and waited. I wasn’t expecting her to show, but I went through the motions. We had a date, but if she didn’t keep it, I would shift to operation B.

I waited until 12.30, then I went into the restaurant and had the club salad, taking my time. Just to make sure, after my lunch, I wandered down to the tennis courts and around the pool. Nancy Hamel was not in evidence.

So, operation B.

Bart, baby, I said to myself, as I walked to the parking lot, you can’t expect to pick up one hundred thousand dollars without working for it. So work for it.

I drove down to the waterfront, parked within sight of the Alameda bar, left the car and crossed the crowded waterfront to the Alameda entrance. Pushing aside the bead curtains, I walked into the big room.

There was a number of waterfront riff-raff up at the bar. Several tourists were eating at the tables. The Mexican waiters were busy, serving.

The fat barkeep gave me an oily smile as I walked up to the bar.

“Mr. Diaz,” I said. “Where do I find him?”

The barkeep’s little eyes widened.

“You want Mr. Diaz?”

“You deaf or something?” I gave him a smile to take the curse off it.

“Mr. Diaz is busy.”

“So am I. Hurry it up, fatso. Tell him it’s Bart Anderson.”

He hesitated, then moved down the bar to a telephone. He spoke softly, nodded and hung up.

“Through there,” he said, and pointed to a door at the far end of the room.

I walked over to the door, opened it and stepped into a room furnished as an office: a desk facing me, filing cabinets to the right and left of me, two telephones on the desk and a smaller desk on which stood a typewriter.

Sitting behind the bigger desk was a slim, middle-aged man who regarded me with glittering, flat eyes a cobra might envy. His thick, well-oiled black hair grew down to his collar. He had a black moustache that climbed down either side of his face to his chin. Looking at him, I saw why Al Barney had warned me about him. As Barney had said, this Mexican was a very tough hombre.

“Mr. Diaz?” I said, closing the door and leaning against it.

He nodded, found a matchstick and began to probe his teeth.

“Are you acting for Lucia Pofferi?” I asked, watching him.

His face remained deadpan.

“You’ve got a wrong number,” he said.

“Maybe you are acting for Nancy Hamel?”

“Maybe.”

“I had a date with her at the Country Club. She didn’t show.”

He lifted his shoulders and looked bored.

“I was expecting her to hand over a lump of the green,” I said. “No green.”

Again he lifted his shoulders and looked more bored.