Джеймс Чейз - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place

Finally, I got rid of him, then Jeremy Rafferty arrived with his piece about violence in the streets. It was so good, I decided to run it in the next issue. I called the artist who did our illustrations and explained to him how to illustrate the article. In spite of being caught up in the machinery of producing a magazine, every now and then my mind kept darting to the stolen reel of tape. When Rafferty left I went into Jean’s office but found her in a huddle with one of our advertisers and they looked set for some time. By now it was midday. I asked Judy to phone the Eat’s bar and have a sandwich sent over. While I was eating it, I called the hospital to inquire after Wally. I was lucky to catch Stanstead.

‘What’s the news, Henry? How’s Wally?’

‘Not so good,’ Stanstead told me. ‘He’s not responding as he should. I have got Carson coming to look at him this afternoon. Those kicks in the head have done more damage than I had thought.’

I stiffened, shocked.

‘For God’s sake, Henry! You said he wasn’t in danger... is he?’

‘Let us say he isn’t responding. Carson has seen the X-rays. He’s deciding whether to operate or not.’

‘Have you told Shirley?’

‘Of course.’

‘Is he conscious?’

‘No. You see, Steve, Wally is badly out of condition. He’s too fat and bluntly, he’s flabby. You can’t take the kind of beating he had without being in trouble.’

‘Who is Carson anyway?’

‘He is our best brain surgeon.’ Stanstead sounded a little impatient that I didn’t know. ‘Mr. Chandler said Wally was to have the best treatment and he’s getting it.’

‘When will you know?’

‘Around five o’clock. I’ll call you.’

‘Thanks,’ and I hung up.

I sat back. I had a definite feeling that Wally could give me information about Gordy. I wanted to know how he had got those three names — Lucilla Bower, Creeden and Latimer and if there were any other names.

The door opened and Jean came in.

‘What a morning!’ she said. ‘I have only a minute but I wanted you to know I got rid of the gun last night. I drove down town and dumped it in a sack of refuse. It was the best I could do, but I’m sure it won’t be found.’

‘You are wonderful, Jean. I can’t thank you enough. Wally...’

‘I know. I called Shirley. She told me.’

‘How is she?’

‘Bearing up. She’s gone to the hospital.’

‘Stanstead will call me around five.’

We looked at each other.

‘Will you have dinner with me tonight, Jean? There’s a lot to talk about.’

The telephone bell started up. She answered, then handed me the receiver. ‘It’s Borg. I’ll get back to my desk.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes, all right,’ and she was gone.

‘Steve? I hear you’ve lost your gun.’ Borg’s voice sounded tough.

‘It was stolen from my car.’

‘Hell! I can’t get you another and you’d better not tell the boss. What’s the matter with you? Don’t you lock your car for God’s sake?’

‘Last night I had things on my mind.’

‘Send the permit back to me and I’ll try to sort it out. The cops are cursing me,’ and he hung up.

I remembered that Max and I had been so busy with the Hammond article, I had forgotten to give him his gun and permit. I went over to the closet to check if the gun was still there: it was.

Then Harry Lancing arrived. He handled our financial column which was a big success. He and I spent the rest of the afternoon, interrupted by telephone calls, mapping out his article for the next issue.

When he had gone, the time was nearly 18.00. My intercom buzzed.

‘Mr. Chandler on the line,’ Jean told me.

I lifted the receiver.

‘Hi, Steve! I’m just back.’ Chandler’s voice boomed. ‘Damn good trip. I have things to talk to you about. Come over and have dinner with us and bring Linda. She can keep Lois company while we talk, huh?’

I thought of my date with Jean, but this was an invitation I couldn’t refuse.

‘Linda is in Dallas with her mother, Mr. Chandler.’

‘Then bring Jean with you. I have to keep Lois occupied.’ He laughed. ‘The Hammond article ready?’

‘The layout is with the printers. On my way over to you, I’ll get some pulls.’

‘Fine. Say around seven? I want an early night.’

‘Yes, Mr. Chandler.’

I went into Jean’s office and told her Chandler had invited her to dinner.

She threw up her hands, her face registering despair.

‘Oh, no!’

‘There it is.’

‘I must drop everything and go home, Steve. I have to change. His wife is so formal. I’ll meet you there at seven.’

Returning to my desk, I called the printers and asked if they could have pulls of the Hammond article in an hour. Because Chandler owned the works, they said they would.

I looked at my watch. I had three-quarters of an hour before I need leave the office. In the bustle, I had forgotten Stanstead hadn’t telephoned.

I called the hospital. Stanstead apologised for not calling me.

‘He’s been operated on. I would have called you sooner but Mr. Borg has been taking up my time.’

‘Borg?’

‘That’s right. He represents Mr. Chandler, doesn’t he? Wally will be all right. In a couple of days, now the pressure on the brain has been removed, he’ll be able to have visitors. Mr. Borg wants to get him to some clinic in Miami as soon as it is safe for him to travel. Mr. Chandler certainly looks after his staff.’

‘In a couple of days, I can talk to him?’

‘I think so. The police have priority. Lieutenant Goldstein is already pressing.’

‘I’ll call you Friday.’

‘Do that.’

I sat for a long moment, thinking. Would Wally give the police the story about Gordy? I was sure Shirley would be the first to see him and she must be told to warn Wally to say nothing. I telephoned Wally’s house but got no reply. Shirley was probably still at the hospital. Well, I had two days. It was time I was moving. I locked up the office and went down to my car.

I stopped off at the printers and collected the damp pulls of the Hammond article. I paused to look them over. They looked good to me. Then I drove uptown to Chandler’s opulent house, arriving there at 19.05. I saw Jean’s Porsche already parked. The butler, imported from England, took me into a vast lounge: every piece of furniture had a history and a price, and the paintings in the gilt frames, lit by special lighting, were all museum treasures.

‘Come on in, Steve,’ Chandler said.

Jean, looking lovely in a simple white dress, was nursing a dry martini. Lois Chandler was sitting by her side and she smiled at me as I came forward.

Lois Chandler was some twenty years younger than her husband and that would make her thirty-six or — seven. She was tall, elegant and sophisticated. She appeared to have nothing else to do except entertain her husband’s guests, buy clothes, visit beauty parlours and look glamorous. She was so immaculate that I had the feeling that if I touched her it would be like touching a masterpiece in oils that had not completely dried. Her hair, thick and impressively groomed, was tinted sable. Her large green eyes, her rather sharp little nose, her sensual mouth and her determined chin explained why Chandler had married her and doted on her.

‘You are a stranger, Steve,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘We don’t see enough of you.’

We all made small talk while drinks were served, then we went into dinner which was formal and over-rich and while we ate Chandler talked about his visit to Washington. We were told how the President was looking, that Chandler thought the inflation problem was on the way to being solved, that the President and he were now on first name terms. While we were being served dessert, Lois suddenly broke in, looking at her husband as she said, ‘Darling, aren’t you monopolising the conversation? I want to hear from Steve about this odd murder at Eastlake.’