James Chase: A Can of Worms

Some chick told me that Bertha was tied up with a client. I said not to bother, I would call back, then I left the office, paused at the news stall in the lobby and bought a pack of cigarettes and Newsweek and drove down to the waterfront. I parked where I could see Hamel’s yacht when it returned and settled down to wait.

As the hands of my watch moved to 18.00, I saw the yacht approaching the harbour. In a few minutes, Josh Jones had made fast. Nancy came running down the gangplank and onto the quay.

She paused and called, “Tomorrow at the same time, Josh.” She waved and went over to where she had left the Ferrari. As she set the car in motion, I started my engine and followed her.

Glenda had told me that Hamel lived on Paradise Largo where only the real rich dwelt. Paradise Largo was an isthmus in the seawater canal and formed a link between E.I. highway and the A.I.A. highway. The causeway, leading to the Largo, was guarded by armed security men, plus an electronic controlled barrier. No one — repeat no one — was allowed on the Largo without first identifying himself and stating his business. There were some forty magnificent houses and villas on the Largo. They were hidden behind twenty-foot high flowering hedges and double oak, nail studded gates.

I followed Nancy’s car to the causeway, then sure she was going home, I turned off the highway and headed back to the office. I found Chick pouring himself a Scotch, his feet on his desk.

“Me too,” I said.

“Use your own bottle.” Chick put his bottle back in his desk drawer. “Any action?”

“Routine.” I sat behind my desk. “She played tennis, ate, then went off on a swank yacht. The Colonel says I can chase her in a chopper tomorrow. Should be fun. And you?”

Chick pursed his lips.

“I’m getting the idea that Waldo Carmichael might not exist. No one, so far, knows of him.”

I hoisted my bottle into sight, regarded it and found I had one small drink left. I poured and tossed the empty bottle into the trash basket.

“Tried the hotels?”

“All the big ones. I’ll try the smaller ones tomorrow. I’ve talked to Ernie and Wally. They don’t know him, but they promise to check.”

Ernie Bolshaw wrote a breezy gossip column for the Paradise City Herald. Wally Simmonds was the City’s P.R.O. If anyone would know about Waldo Carmichael, they would.

“Palmer could be right,” I said. “These letters might come from some sick crank, trying to make mischief.”

“Could be. I’ve sent the letters to the lab. They might come up with something.”

I pulled the telephone towards me and called Nick Hardy. I booked a helicopter for tomorrow afternoon.

The time was 18.45. By now, Bertha should be home. I dialled her number as Chick began clearing his desk.

When Bertha came on the line, I said, “Hi, babe! How about a hamburger and me for company?”

“Is that you, Bart?”

“Well, if it isn’t, someone is wearing my suit.”

“I can’t eat hamburgers. They disagree with me. Let’s go to the Seagull. I’m hungry.”

“Not the Seagull, honey. Funds are low right now. Next month, we’ll go to the Seagull.”

“Ask Chick to lend you something,” Bertha suggested. She knew I bit Chick’s ear from time to time. “I’m starving!”

“I’ve already asked him. He came up with a mean fifty.”

“Then let’s go to the Lobster and Crab. We can eat well there for fifty.”

“I’m coming over, honey. We can make plans, huh?” and I hung up.

“Are you spending my money on that extortionist of yours?” Chick demanded. “The Seagull! You need your head examined!”

“We only die once,” I said. “No Seagull. What are you doing tonight?”

Chick looked smug.

“I’m feeding with Wally. He picks up the tab. I’ve conned him I can give him something: business and pleasure. So long, sucker,” and he took himself off.

I typed my report, stating that I had checked out Nancy, and tossed the report into my out-tray. Then I cleared my desk and made for the elevator.

Charles Edwards, who handled the financial end of the Agency, came out of his office and joined me as we walked to the elevator. He was short, dark, middle-aged and tough. He glanced at me from behind his pebble glasses disapprovingly.

“Just the man!” I said as I thumbed the elevator call button. “Let’s have a fifty, pal. Deduct it off my next pay. This is an emergency.”

“You are always asking for an advance,” Edwards said, moving into the elevator. “The Colonel wouldn’t approve.”

“Who’s going to tell him? Come on, pal, you wouldn’t want to deprive my old mother from her gin, would you?”

As the elevator descended, Edwards took out his wallet and produced a fifty bill.

“That comes off your next pay, Anderson. Remember that.”

“Thanks.” I snapped up the bill. “I’ll do the same for you in an emergency.”

The doors swished open and Edwards, giving me a curt nod, walked away. I thumbed the button to the basement garage, got in the Maser, gunned the engine which gave off a deep-throated roar, then I edged the car into the thick, home-going traffic.

Bertha talked me into taking her to the Seagull. She had a special talent for talking any sucker her way. I was sure she would talk her way out of her coffin when the time came.

As soon as we had settled at the table and I had ordered very dry martinis, I sat back and regarded her.

She looked good enough to eat. Her flame coloured hair, her big green eyes and ochre tan, plus a body that could and did stop traffic, all added up to a scrumptious, sexy explosion.

To look at her, apart from her glamour, you would have thought she was just a gorgeous, sexy birdbrain. She could put on a bright, interested expression that fooled the guys who were suckers enough to imagine that she was sincerely interested in them, longed to listen to their boasting about their big, successful deals, their prowess at golf or fishing or what-have-you, but she didn’t fool me. I had known her long enough to know that Bertha Kinsley was strictly interested only in money and herself.

In spite of this failing, she was gay, gorgeous and sensational between the sheets. I would rather spend money on her than on any other girl I knew. She was strictly value for money even though she came high.

“Don’t stare at me like that,” she said. “You look as if you’re about to drag me under the table and rape me.”

“That’s a good idea!” I said. “Let’s show these creeps what we can do together in a confined space.”

“Quiet! I’m hungry!” She began to study the menu like a refugee from a detention centre. “Hmmm! King prawns! Certainly! Then something solid.” She flashed her sexy smile at Luigi, the Maître d’ who had approached our table. “What can you suggest for a starving woman, Luigi?”

“Don’t listen to her,” I said firmly. “We’ll have the prawns and steaks.”

Luigi glanced at me coldly, then beamed at Bertha.

“I was about to suggest, Miss Kingsley, our spit chicken, stuffed with lobster meat and served in a cream sauce with truffles.”

“Yes!” Bertha practically screamed.

Ignoring me, Luigi wrote on his pad, smiled again at Bertha and went away.

“I have exactly fifty bucks,” I lied. “If it comes to more, and it will, I’ll have to borrow from you, chick.”

“Never borrow from a woman,” Bertha said. “It’s not chivalrous. Wave your credit card. That’s what credit cards are all about.”

“My credit card is strictly for business.”

“So what? We’re on business, aren’t we?”

The prawns arrived.

While we ate, I asked, “Does the name Waldo Carmichael mean anything to you?”