Джеймс Чейз - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place

‘Dump it in a trash bin down town,’ I said finally.

‘Yes. Give it to me. I’ll do it. You must go home, Steve.’

‘To hell with that for an idea! I’m not involving you!’

‘But it will be easy for me. You could be seen doing it. Tomorrow, I’ll make a parcel of the gun, put it in my shopping bag and drop it in a trash bin on my way to work.’

‘That’s something you are not going to do.’ I got to my feet. ‘I shouldn’t have come here. I can handle it.’

She smiled wearily, then shrugged.

‘All right. Men have to be heroes, don’t they? I suppose I mustn’t persuade you not to be a hero.’

Looking at her, I knew I needed her badly and I knew I was in love with her. I unstrapped the holster and put it on the table with the gun.

‘I’m no hero, Jean. I want to say something...’

‘Please not!’ Her voice was curt. ‘Not now. I’ll get rid of the gun. Now go home.’

She got to her feet and went to the front door, opening it.

I hesitated then moved by her.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘When this mess has been sorted out, I want badly to talk to you about yourself and myself.’

‘One thing at a time, Steve,’ she said quietly and closed the door on me.

I took the elevator down to the lobby and reached my car. I got in and sat thinking.

I wanted so badly to tell her I was in love with her, but she was right, of course. This wasn’t the time. I turned my thoughts to my next move. I decided it would be unwise to go to the police and report the gun was missing right now. This would have to be done in the morning. My story would be I had left the gun in my glove compartment when I had left the office. I had parked the car the following morning, then remembering the gun, I had found it missing. I had at once driven to police headquarters to report the theft.

So long as Creeden kept his mouth shut, so long as the film showing Linda was a thief wasn’t found, then I felt confident, even if the gun was eventually found and proved to be the gun that had killed Gordy, no jury could find me guilty of his murder on such flimsy evidence.

But it didn’t work out quite that easily.

As I pulled up outside my garage door, I saw a police car parked across the way. The sight of it set my heart thumping. I got out to open the garage doors as a broad shouldered, heavily built man got out of the police car. It was Sergeant Lu Brenner.

‘Mr. Manson?’

I turned.

‘Hello, Sergeant.’

‘A word with you.’

‘Sure. Let me put the car away and come on in.’

He stood back. I drove the car into the garage, turned off the lights, then walked around to the front door. By this time I had my jumping nerves under control.

Together we walked into the living room and I switched on the lights.

‘Sit down, Sergeant. What is it?’

I moved to my desk and sat behind it while he stood before me. His craggy face could have been carved from teak. His small, restless eyes kept shifting from me to around the room and back to me again.

‘You have a .38 automatic number 4553 with a pistol permit number 75560?’ he asked, staring at me.

‘I have an automatic, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t know about the number.’ I took out my billfold and found the pistol permit which I offered him. He examined it, then dropped in on my desk.

‘Where’s the gun?’

‘In the glove compartment of my car.’

‘I want to see it.’

‘Why?’

‘Never mind why. Go get it.’

We stared at each other.

‘Have you a search warrant, Sergeant?’ I said.

He nodded as if with approval.

‘No, but I could get one.’

‘Suppose you tell me what all this is about. I could then be cooperative, but I’m not just accepting loud talk from you, Sergeant.’

He studied me, his little eyes like chips of ice, then he took from his jacket pocket a small object which he set on the desk in front of me. It was a cartridge case.

Keeping my face expressionless, I said, ‘So?’

‘Ever heard of Jesse Gordy?’

‘He’s the manager of the Welcome store up the road.’

Brenner nodded.

‘Yeah. Someone put a slug in him and that’s the empty shell I found in the room where he died.’

I picked up the cartridge case and rolled it between my fingers. I was expecting him to snatch it away, but he made no move. I looked at him. His expression was blank.

‘Isn’t this called evidence?’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

I took out my handkerchief and carefully wiped the shell case, then still holding it in my handkerchief I set it on my desk.

‘You will want it back.’

‘You keep it. It’s a present.’ He paused, then went on, ‘Gordy is better out of the way.’ His rat trap of a mouth curled into a grim smile. ‘If you haven’t already done it get rid of your gun and report it stolen. By shooting that creep you have got a lot of guys off a hook.’

‘What makes you think I shot him, Sergeant?’

‘That cartridge case. It’s a new issue. You got the first box. I have to keep track of minor things like that.’

‘That still doesn’t mean I shot him.’

‘Tell that to the judge.’ He started towards the door, paused, then said, ‘Watch it. Lieutenant Goldstein is handling the case. He’s up there now, shooting off with his mouth. He could get around to you. I happened to have caught the squeal and I was the first to arrive. He likes me like you like cancer.’

‘I didn’t kill him.’

‘So long as you can prove it to Goldstein, you didn’t kill him.’

As he again started to the door, I said, ‘Sergeant...’

He paused to stare at me.

‘You made a statement. I’ll quote you: “By shooting that creep you’ve got a lot of guys off the hook.” Does that include you?’

‘Don’t get smart, Manson. You could still be in trouble,’ and he left me.

I sat there, staring at the shell case until I heard his car drive away, then I put the shell case in my pocket.

I remembered Webber had told me Brenner was crazy about his wife. Had she too been stealing from the Welcome store and had Gordy been blackmailing Brenner?

I thought of Lieutenant Abe Goldstein. He was an ambitious, clever cop. If he found the blackmail film, then I would be in real trouble, but so too could Creeden, Latimer and maybe Brenner.

Because I wanted to hear the sound of her voice, I called Jean. There was no answer. I went down to the boiler room and dropped the shell case into the furnace, then I returned to the living room. I called her number again. Still no answer. I smoked, thought and worried. Half an hour later, I called her again.

‘Yes?’

The sound of her voice was to me like a shot in the arm.

‘I’ve been trying to get you, Jean. I...’

‘Not now. Tomorrow at the office.’ Her voice sounded strained. ‘It’s all right... you know what I mean. I’ve just been out. It’s all right,’ and she hung up.

I drew in a long, deep breath. She had got rid of the gun!

I stared into space, thinking.

Another long, lonely night stretched ahead of me.

I had just finished drinking coffee when I saw the newsboy on his bicycle toss the California Times on my stoop. I collected the paper and had to hunt for the account of Gordy’s murder. I found it tucked away on page 3.

It merely stated that the manager of the Welcome Self-service had been found by his close friend, Miss Freda Hawes, shot to death. Lieutenant Abe Goldstein was in charge of the investigation. He said the shooting had taken place between 20.30 and 21.00 and appeared to be without a motive.

Obviously the California Times was little interested in the murder of Jesse Gordy.

Freda Hawes? A close friend?