James Chase - A Can of Worms

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Anderson. I was about to call you,” Jarvis said. “I hope this will be to your taste.”

I regarded the silver dish on which lay a magnificent salmon, poached in a cream and herb sauce.

“It looks good enough for two honest, hardworking men to eat, Mr. Jarvis,” I said, sitting at the table.

“I think champagne goes well with salmon. I ventured to put a bottle in the ice bucket.”

Man! I thought. This is the way to live!

As we ate, I launched into one of my fabricated crime stories. It was sometime after 21.00 that I brought the yarn to an exciting conclusion. We were sipping coffee, with a Napoleon brandy for support, when we both heard the sharp bang of a fired gun.

I put down my coffee cup and jumped to my feet. The shot had come from across the road.

Leaving Jarvis gaping, I ran fast down the drive to the gates. I was sure the shot had come from Hamel’s place. Moving across the road, I shoved open the Hamel gates, and started up the drive to the ranch house.

As I reached the front door, it was open, and Washington Smith appeared in the doorway. He was shaking, his eyes rolling, his face the colour of lead.

“Oh, Mr. Anderson...”

“Take it easy,” I said, and caught hold of him.

“Mr. Hamel... in his study,” Smith gasped, then his knees buckled.

I pushed him aside and walked into the big lobby. A fat, elderly negress sat on a chair, her apron covering her face, and she was making whimpering sounds. Crossing the patio, I walked to Hamel’s study. The door stood wide open.

I smelt gun smoke. Pausing, I looked into the big room where, not so long ago, Hamel had talked to me.

Facing me was his big desk. He sat behind the desk, his head resting on the highback of the desk chair, his eyes staring at me with the emptiness of death. Blood trickled down the right side of his face. Powder bums discoloured the small hole in his temple.

For a long moment, I stood looking at him and the only thought that came to me was I would now never own a million dollars. Then shaking off this depression, I moved into the room, and up to the desk. On the floor, by the chair lay a Beretta 6.35 pistol. I looked at it, but didn’t touch it. The air conditioner was on. The windows were closed. My eyes travelled to the desk. An IBM typewriter stood before Hamel and there was a sheet of paper in the machine.

There was writing. I leaned forward and read:

Why go on? I am of no use to a woman. I have spoilt two marriages. Why go on?

I stood away and stared at the dead man.

“You poor sap,” I said, half aloud. “You certainly got your values wrong.”

“Mr. Anderson...”

I turned.

Smith stood wringing his hands, in the doorway.

“He’s dead,” I said. “Don’t touch anything here.” I moved out of the room and closed the door. “Where’s Mrs. Hamel?”

“Dead? Oh, Mr. Anderson... he was so good to us.”

“Get hold of yourself!” I barked. “Where’s Mrs. Hamel?”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t returned.”

Then it flashed into my mind that if Nancy found me — the guy who had bitten her for fifty thousand dollars — plus the news her husband had killed himself, she might flip and start trouble I wouldn’t want. I decided to do a quick fade.

“Mr. Smith! Listen carefully. I’ll get action. Don’t let Mrs. Hamel go in there. Just wait... okay?”

He nodded dumbly.

Moving fast, I left the ranch house and ran back to the cottage where Jarvis was waiting, his big black eyes alarmed question marks.

Briefly, I told him that Hamel had killed himself. Then I went into the cottage for the telephone, then paused. Mel Palmer had to be the first on the scene, then the cops.

Jarvis was hovering around.

“Got a telephone book?” I demanded.

He produced the local book. I found Palmer’s home number and, praying he would be home, I dialled.

I had to talk my way around a snooty sounding butler before Palmer came on the line.

“What is it, Mr. Anderson?” he asked crossly. “I have guests.”

“Russ Hamel has just shot himself,” I said. “He’s dead. Mrs. Hamel isn’t home. There’s a suicide note in his typewriter the press will love. I leave it to you to call the police.”

“I don’t believe it!” Palmer croaked.

“He’s dead. Get moving,” and I hung up.

As I moved out of the cottage into the humid darkness, I heard the throaty roar of the Ferrari. Nancy was back! I belted down the drive and climbed the tree. I was in time to see Nancy getting out of the car. She walked slowly up the steps to the front door. The porch light was on and I could see her clearly. Then Smith opened the door. He stepped back, and she moved forward and out of sight. The door closed.

I would have given a lot to have been able to watch Nancy’s reactions when Smith broke the news to her. Had she loved Hamel or had she married him only to escape from the Italian police?

Then a thought struck me with considerable force. By Hamel’s stupid suicide, Nancy would inherit his wealth, his copyrights and his film earnings. As his widow, she would become immensely rich!

Then my mind switched to Pofferi. According to Lu Coldwell, Pofferi had come to the United States to raise money for his murderous organisation. Nancy was his wife. He would have access to Hamel’s fortune to be used to finance the Red Brigade!

I climbed down the tree and walked back to the cottage, my mind busy. As I reached the cottage, I heard the telephone bell ringing. Entering, I picked up the receiver.

“Mr. Anderson,” Jarvis said. “Mr. Herschenheimer heard the shot. He is extremely nervous. I am staying with him. Will you watch the gates? I told him about this unfortunate suicide, but he doesn’t believe it. He is sure an assassin is on the island.”

“Okay,” I said. “Tell him no one will get near him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson. He will be relieved.”

I replaced the receiver, then realizing that Mel Palmer could have trouble getting past the security barrier, I called Mike O’Flagherty at the guardhouse.

I explained the situation.

“I’ve alerted Mr. Hamel’s agent, Mr. Palmer,” I said. “He’ll be arriving any moment. Let him through, Mike. The police will also be arriving. Let them through.”

“Holy Mary!” Mike exclaimed. “The poor man has killed himself?”

“Let Mr. Palmer through,” I said, and hung up.

I went down to the gates and waited. Ten minutes later, a Cadillac pulled up outside Hamel’s gates. I watched Palmer get out of the car, push open the gates and hurry up the drive.

I waited, and while I waited, I thought of the fifty thousand dollars I had squandered. I stopped thinking when I began to think of my future: those thoughts were too depressing.

Around 23.00, a police car arrived. From it spilled Tom Lepski and Max Jacoby. I walked across the road as they got from the car.

Lepski regarded me.

“What’s cooking?” he demanded.

I explained I had been on duty guarding Herschenheimer. I had heard a shot, found Hamel dead, alerted Palmer and was now back on guard duty.

Lepski glared at me.

“Why didn’t you call us?”

“That’s Palmer’s job,” I said. “The suicide note could be damaging. There’s a load of money involved.”

“What suicide note?”

“Hamel was impotent according to the note. The press will love it, Tom. A big selling author of porno, impotent! It’s something only Palmer can handle.”

“You have been up there?”

“I found him.”

Lepski’s eyes narrowed.

“Touch anything?”

“Come on, Tom, you know better than to ask a stupid question. Mrs. Hamel was out on the yacht. She got back around half an hour ago.”