James Chase - A Can of Worms

But this gruesome escape plan had come apart at the seams. Lucia had made two fatal errors: she had failed to recognize me because she had never seen me, and the suitcase she had packed was so important to her, she had let her mask slip.

I forced myself to call, “It’s all right, Mrs. Hamel. I’m bringing it.”

The two interns closed around her. They and Palmer entered the elevator cage with her.

Nick handed down the suitcase.

“That’s it, Nick, and thanks. Don’t say a word to the press.”

“It’s been a ball,” Nick said, grinning. “Man! This is something to tell my grandchildren.”

I crossed over to the elevator, paused until he had taken off, then tried to open the suitcase. It was locked. Using the barrel of my gun, I forced open the locks.

Among the clothes, I found a .38 revolver, two hand grenades and a chequebook. Squatting on my haunches, I examined the chequebook. Every cheque in the book carried Nancy Hamel’s signature. Staring at the book, I realized the book was worth millions of dollars. I put it in my jacket pocket, then I hid the revolver and the grenades in the gutter, surrounding the roof. I carefully re-fixed the locks, then I took the elevator down to the penthouse floor. I found Mel Palmer, looking miffed, standing outside a door in the corridor.

“Mr. Anderson,” he said. “She wants her bag.”

“I bet she does,” I said.

“I don’t understand it” he went on, a plaintive whine in his voice. “She refuses medical care. She said she wanted to be alone. After all the trouble I have taken to arrange for her comfort! She actually pushed me out!”

That I could understand.

“I’ll give her the bag,” I said. “She has had a great shock. The best thing for her is to get some rest.”

“It’s nearly dawn!” he exclaimed. “I also need rest! I have commitments today! I am going home.”

“The best place, Mr. Palmer,” I said, giving him my sincere smile. “As soon as I have given Mrs. Hamel her bag, that’s where I’ll be heading.”

I watched him walk to the elevator, then I loosened my gun in its holster, then tapped on the door.

“Your bag, Mrs. Hamel,” I said.

The door jerked open.

The woman I was now sure was Lucia Pofferi stared at me. Her face had a boney, scraped look: her eyes were glittering.

“Put it down,” she said, taking a step back.

I moved forward and placed the bag just inside the room.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now leave me.”

With the heel of my shoe, I shoved the door shut. As I did so, I drew my gun and levelled it at her.

“Take it easy, baby,” I said. “Don’t try anything tricky.”

She cocked an eyebrow.

“So, who are you?”

“The name’s Bart Anderson.”

Watching her, I saw her eyes narrow. The nickel had dropped. Diaz must have told her my name: possibly Nancy also.

“Bart Anderson?” A thin, viperish smile touched her lips.

“Of course, the blackmailer. How did you get on the scene?”

“It’s my business. Let’s sit down, baby, we have much to talk about.”

She shrugged, then walked over to a big settee and sat down. She crossed her legs and leaned back, regarding me.

She looked as attractive as a coiled cobra. I took a chair well away from her and I kept the gun pointing at her.

“How does it feel to murder your sister?” I asked.

“That ninny? Why not? She was a useless birdbrain. Aldo agreed she should take my place. I am important to our movement. She was nothing.” Her eyes moved to the suitcase. “I see you’ve broken the locks. Did you get the chequebook?”

“I have it.” I smiled at her. “The hardware is up on the roof.”

She nodded.

“So let’s not waste time,” she said. “How much do you want?”

Still keeping her covered, I took out the chequebook and waved it at her.

“I’ll settle for a million. That leaves you plenty. Let’s work it this way: I keep the cheques. You stay here. I’ll write four cheques for two hundred and fifty thousand. When the loot has been transferred to my bank, I’ll give you the book. It’ll take a week or so. Then I’ll help you get away. There’s the yacht, baby. I’ll find a crewman and one dark night, you take off for Cuba. Like the idea?”

Her face remained a stony mask.

“Yes, I like it,” she said finally, “but suppose after you have had your payoff, you drop out of sight?”

“There’s that,” I said, giving her my boyish smile. “I guess you’ll have to trust me.”

She shook her head.

“I have a better idea. Take four of those cheques and give me the rest. I’ll stay here a week to give you time to get your share, then I’ll start cashing my cheques. Anything wrong in that?”

I once again began to dream of owning a million dollars, and when I begin to dream about money, I lose concentration.

“Fine with me,” I said, and did a fatal thing. I was sitting well away from her, so I put my gun on the arm of my chair and began to count out four cheques. While doing this, I took my eyes off her: another fatal mistake. Then as she moved, I dropped the chequebook and grabbed for my gun, but I was much too late.

She had a gun in her hand and was shooting before my fingers touched my gun. She must have had the gun hidden down the side of the settee.

I felt a thud against my chest, then saw the gun flash, then heard the bang, and that’s all I did see and hear.

My million dollar world exploded into darkness.

I wasn’t allowed to see any visitors for a week. I lay in a hospital bed, feeling sorry for myself and being attended to by a middle-aged nurse who was as sexy as a dead starfish. From time to time, the surgeon would come in and congratulate himself on saving my life. He had a laugh like a hyena: he looked like a hyena.

While I lay in bed, I did some thinking. It looked as if I was back on square 1, and once I was up and about again, I would have to begin my dreary life, working for the Agency. I asked the nurse what had happened. She said she didn’t know: just looking at her, I wasn’t surprised. She was the type who worked in her small circle and let the world go by. So I just lay there and wondered until my first visitor arrived: Lu Coldwell.

As he drew up a chair and sat down, he said, “You had a lucky escape, Bart. What happened?”

“I gave her her suitcase,” I said. “Then as I was leaving, she pulled a gun and shot me.”

“What the hell did she do that for?”

“You ask her. Don’t ask me.”

“The shot was heard. The hotel dick went up to investigate, and she shot him. Then she took the elevator down to the lobby and walked out, carrying the suitcase and the gun in her hand. You can imagine the commotion! A patrol car was passing, spotted her, carrying a gun, pulled up and she started shooting. They cut her down. She was dead on arrival.”

“She must have gone berserk,” I said.

“She was Lucia Pofferi. Nancy Hamel died at the ranch house.”

So it is over, I thought. No million, back to the treadmill.

“The way I figure it is this...” Coldwell said, and went on to tell me what I could have told him. I didn’t bother to listen.

When he was through, the nurse came in and said I should rest. Coldwell said he hoped I’d be around again soon and took himself off.

No one came near me for the next week. I led a lonely life. I hoped Bertha might at least send flowers: nothing from her. She was now probably married to her Fink and cruising somewhere in his yacht.

I was sitting up in a chair by the time I had my second visitor. It was Chick Barley. He came in, carrying a bottle of Cutty Sark.

“Hi, Bart! How are they hanging?”

I dredged up a brave smile and accepted the bottle.