James Chase - A Can of Worms

“Morning, Mr. Anderson,” the black man said with a stiff little bow. “Mr. Hamel is expecting you. This way if you please.”

I followed him into a big lobby decorated in warm brown and orange, along a short corridor, out onto a patio where a big fountain in a bigger marble bowl, tossed water into the hot, humid air. Tropical fish swam lazily, looking well fed and smug. There were lounging chairs, glass top tables for when the sun went down. On we went, back into the house, down a passage to a door. Here the black man paused, rapped, then stood aside, opening the door.

“Mr. Anderson, sir,” he said, and motioned me forward.

All very impressive, rich, big wheel stuff. I am easily impressed by the show of money, so I was impressed.

“Come in, Mr. Anderson,” a voice called: a hearty, baritone of a voice of a man who is very sure of himself.

I entered the big air-conditioned room. It was a room I immediately envied: comfortable, intimate with lounging chairs, big settees, occasional tables, a big desk, teak polished floor with rich looking rugs, well stocked cocktail cabinet, tape recorders and an I.B.M. C82 typewriter on a typing table. A big picture window gave onto a lush lawn that sloped down to the canal.

Behind the desk sat Russ Hamel. He was just like his photograph: square faced, heavily built, tanned and handsome. He got to his feet and extended his hand.

“Good of you to come, Mr. Anderson. I hear you are on vacation.”

I made noises as we shook hands. He waved me to an armchair.

“Coffee? A drink? A cigar?”

“Nothing right now, thank you sir.” I sat down.

“I’ve read your report.” He tapped the report lying on his desk. “I bet you have no idea why I hired you to watch my wife.”

I looked straight at him, giving him my modified cop stare.

“That’s an easy one, Mr. Hamel. You wanted authentic material for the book you’re writing so you wrote yourself some poison pen letters, instructed your agent to hire us, picked on Mrs. Hamel as a stooge and asked me to come along so you could see what a shamus looks and acts like.”

He gaped at me, then threw back his head and burst out laughing. Right then I liked the guy: I really liked him.

“Well, for God’s sake! And I thought I was being smart. How did you find out?”

“I’m a private detective, Mr. Hamel. It’s my job to find out things like that as it’s your job to write very successful books.”

“You’re spot on, Mr. Anderson. I got stuck wondering how an Agency works.” He grinned. “Your report has been most valuable. Now would you mind telling me about yourself? I’d like to put you in my book.”

“I don’t mind, sir.”

“I won’t be wasting your time, Mr. Anderson. I pay for any material I collect.”

Man! I thought. Is this my golden age!

“That’s fine with me, sir. What do you want to know?”

We spent the next half hour, talking, or rather I did most of the talking, while he shot questions at me. He wanted to know about the organization of the Agency, the training of operators, my own background: all intelligent questions.

Finally, he nodded.

“Well, thanks, Mr. Anderson. You’ve given me just what I want.” He reached for my lengthy report. “But this is what I really wanted.” He regarded me with a smile. “This report of yours is not only of value for the book I’m writing, but it is more than valuable to me in my personal life.”

“Is that right?” I said blankly.

“My plot revolves around a woman married to a busy surgeon. She is considerably younger than he is,” Hamel said. “He gets poison pen letters about his wife so he has her watched. This is a tale of jealousy. The detective turns in a report that matches yours. The surgeon’s wife leads a blameless, lonely life. The reason why I decided to use my wife as a guinea pig is because I know for certain she also leads a blameless, lonely life.” He smiled. “I wasn’t taking any risks. I was sure, as I am sitting here, you would turn in a report like this one.”

I looked away.

Man! I thought, if you only knew what a can of worms you have opened, you wouldn’t be sitting there with that wide, confident smile on your face!

“I’m grateful to you, Mr. Anderson,” he went on, “for such a detailed report. I didn’t realize how dull and lonely my wife’s life has been while I have been locked away writing this book. That is going to be altered.”

I didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Anderson.” He produced a sealed envelope which he handed to me, then stood up. “Accept this as a fee.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hamel,” I said, and he conducted me to the door.

His black servant was waiting.

“So long,” Hamel said, shook hands and retired back to his room.

In the Maser, I lit a cigarette and wondered how long it would be before Hamel discovered he had married a murderess. With any luck, he might never know. I hoped he wouldn’t. I liked the guy. I liked him still more, when opening the envelope he had given me, I found I was $500 the richer.

Nothing lasts forever, but while it lasted, it had been a technicolour dream. As I lay on the sun deck with Bertha by my side, I looked back on those four gorgeous, lush-plush weeks we had spent on this super-duper yacht.

Bertha had fixed it to charter the yacht for $20,000, the round trip, but there had been a catch in it. Whether she didn’t give out enough or the Fink’s demands made her draw a line, he agreed she could have the yacht, but she would have to foot the check for the crew, the food and the drink. As she was spending my money, she agreed. When she broke the news, I thought of all that green stuff I now owned and remembered what my father once had said: Never act like a piker, even if you are one. So I said okay... what’s money for?

We had visited Cayman Islands, Bermuda, the Bahamas and Martinique. We had swum, eaten the best food money could provide, drank four bottles of champagne every day, plus a continuous supply of rum punches that had made Bertha so sexy I had trouble to supply the demand. We entertained the usual scroungers who always invade luxury yachts when they tie up.

We had a ball, but nothing lasts forever.

We were now heading back to Paradise City and would arrive this evening.

“Are you packed, honey?” I asked, stretching.

“Don’t spoil it. I don’t want this ever to end.”

“Me too, but we’d better pack.” I got to my feet. “I’ll pack first, you next, huh?”

“Go away!”

I went down to the state cabin and looked around.

Man! Was I going to miss all this! Reluctantly, I took a suitcase from the closet and tossed it on the bed.

There came a knock on the door, and the Chief steward-cum-butler-cum-valet entered.

He was tall, lean with a hatchet shaped face and beady eyes as animated as sea washed pebbles. His service to us had been immaculate, but all the time he was with us, he looked as if there was a faint, unpleasant smell under his thin nostrils.

“I will be happy to do that for you, sir. You will be leaving us I believe this evening?”

“Yeah. That’s a good idea. Pack for me, and pack for Mrs. Anderson.”

For the sake of decency, we had come aboard as husband and wife, but I had the idea that we weren’t conning this guy, nor the Captain, nor the rest of the crew.

“Yes, sir.” He paused, then produced a fat envelope. “Here is the accounting, sir. It is usual to settle before we land.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll fix that.”

“It is also usual to distribute twenty-five percent of the total amongst the crew, sir. I will be happy to do this for you.”