James Chase - A Can of Worms

At least, it told me something: this hippy was in bad trouble. He wasn’t taking a risk that I might tell anyone he was on the island.

I began to wander over the flattened grass where the tent had been pitched. With this hasty exodus, something might have been left behind. After some minutes of searching, I came across the cheap nickel cigarette lighter I had seen on the folding table. I knelt and regarded it, without touching it. If my luck held, I thought, that flat nickel surface might just carry a fingerprint. I took out my handkerchief, dropped it over the lighter, then scooped it up. I wrapped it carefully, then put it in my pocket. I looked further, but found nothing, so moving fast, I returned to the boat.

The time now was 16.30. I had to stop off at Matecumbe Key to return the fishing tackle. I wouldn’t be back at the office much before 19.00. It was possible Harry Meadows, in charge of our lab, might still be there.

I started the outboard engine and headed for Matecumbe Key.

Glenda was leaving her office when I arrived.

“The Colonel around?” I asked.

“Missed him by five minutes.” She gave me a cool stare. “Anything new?”

“Not a thing. I tailed after her the whole afternoon,” I lied. “She behaved as any wife would behave, shop, window gazing, tea with a bunch of women, then home. Man! Do I hate wife watching!”

“That’s part of your job,” Glenda said curtly, and took herself off.

I went along the corridor until I came to the lab. I found Harry Meadows sitting on a stool, peering through a microscope.

Harry was tall, lean and pushing seventy. At one time he was in charge of the Paradise City police laboratory. When it came for him to retire, Parnell had offered him the job of running the Agency’s small, but efficient laboratory. Meadows, who couldn’t imagine what he would do with himself once retired, jumped at the offer.

“Hi, Harry,” I said, shutting the door. “Still working?”

Harry glanced up and nodded.

“Fooling really,” he said. “It passes the time, better than watching T.V. at home. What can I do for you?”

I produced the lighter, still in my handkerchief.

“See if there are any prints on this, will you, Harry, and lift them? I want them checked.”

“I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow morning, Bart. Do you want the prints sent to Washington?”

“Sure. I want the works on this one.” As I was turning to the door, I asked. “Anything on those poison pen letters Chick gave you?”

“They were written on an I.B.M. 82C golf ball machine: delegate type. I got some smudged prints off the letters, but they have been well handled, and the prints amount to nothing. The paper is interesting. I have samples of all notepapers sold in this city. This paper is special. My guess it could be Italian. That’s a guess.”

Knowing Harry’s guesses were pretty accurate, I filed that information away for future reference.

“What happened to the letters?”

“I gave them to Glenda with the report.”

“Okay, Harry. Let me know if you find any prints on that lighter. See you,” and I went back to my office. Chick had gone. I sat down and did some thinking.

Where had Nancy moved my hippy? I couldn’t imagine her bringing him to the harbour which was always crowded. It would cause a lot of gossip if anyone spotted him leaving the yacht. If I were in her place, I would leave him below deck until around 03.00, when the quay was always deserted, and get him off the yacht with every chance of him not being seen.

I decided to spend the night down on the quay. There was plenty of time. I took my .38 police special from my desk drawer, loaded it and put on my holster. Then I left my office, and rode the elevator down to the garage.

It would be dark in another three hours. I wondered if Bertha was free, but decided against calling her. She would land me with an expensive dinner. I warned myself I would have to conserve what money I had.

I drove down to the waterfront, parked the car, then wandered aimlessly along, past the fish stalls, the fruit vendors, and towards the yacht basin.

I spotted Al Barney sitting on his usual bollard, a beer can in his hand. I gave him a wide berth. Mingling with the tourists and the fishermen, I got by him without him seeing me.

It occurred to me to go to the Alameda bar. I could take a look at Gloria Cort, Hamel’s ex-wife, and her boyfriend, Alphonso Diaz, and have dinner at the same time.

I slowed as I approached the vast yacht basin. There were about six hundred swank yachts moored to the walk-around harbour. Hamel’s yacht was sandwiched between a sailboat and another motor yacht. The gangplank was run in, and Josh Jones sat in a canvas chair, whittling wood with a dangerous looking flick knife. His big body was set before the entrance to the companion way.

I was careful to give him only a glance, then walked on. It looked as if he were mounting guard which pointed to my hippy being below. I was pretty sure there would be no action until after midnight when the quay would thin out, so slightly increasing my stride, I headed for the Alameda bar at the far end of the quay.

This was Wednesday night, and most of the bars were slack. They came alive at the weekends when the fishermen and the dock workers had money to burn.

As I continued on my way, I saw a news-stall that sold paperbacks and newspapers. I jostled through the crowd. There were several of Russ Hamel’s books on display: all of them with sexy, lurid jackets. I bought one: Love is a Lonely Thing. The girl on the jacket looked pensive. She had traffic-stopping breasts.

I continued on until I reached the Alameda bar. The entrance was guarded by an anti-fly curtain. Pushing this aside, I walked into a big room with a horse-shoe shaped bar to my left, a dais on which a negro pianist played soft, mournful jazz, and a number of tables scattered around, laid for eating.

There were more than a dozen men up at the bar. Three Mexican waiters, in black, wearing long white aprons, stood around, trying to look busy. The barkeep was a big, fat Mexican who regarded me with an oily smile. He was bald, greasy, and sported a long, drooping moustache.

The men at the bar were tough looking fishermen. None of them bothered to look my way. I went over to one of the distant tables and sat down, placing Hamel’s book on the table.

One of the waiters, young, dark, came over, and lifted his eyebrows.

“What have you got?” I asked.

“Our special, Signor. Arroz con polio. Very good.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Young chicken, rice, red peppers, asparagus tips. Very special.”

“Okay, and Scotch on the rocks.”

I saw him looking at the girl on the paperback.

“Some chick, huh?” I said.

He gave me a long stare, then walked away. Settling myself on the chair, I lit a cigarette and picked up the book. I learned from the blurb on the back cover that: this explosive novel, written by the sensational master of American fiction, soon to be a motion picture, has already sold over 5,000,000 copies.

The fat barkeep came over and put a Scotch on the rocks on the table. He showed me yellow teeth in a friendly smile, then returned to the bar.

After a ten minute wait, I got served. I was hungry, and the chicken looked good. The waiter put the dish before me, nodded and joined the other waiters.

While I was helping myself, three tourists came in: two elderly women and a youth festooned with cameras. They sat down away from me.

I ate. The chicken was tough, and the peppers hot, but I had eaten worse. It was while I was dissecting the drumstick, a woman came from behind a curtain at the far end of the room, paused to look around, then came over to my table.