Джеймс Чейз - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place

It was an excellent picture. I could even read the labels on some of the cans. There were no customers, which puzzled me. After a few moments the scanner shifted and I caught a glimpse of a suspended clock. The time showed 09.03. The store had just opened. Now the picture showed where you got hard liquor. Then from around a corner, pushing a market cart, came a woman. As she walked, she was looking over her shoulder as if to make sure no one was watching her. She paused by the whisky section, then looked fully into the lens of the hidden scanner.

My heart skipped a beat and I heard myself gasp.

The woman was Jean!

My hand turned into fists and my nails dug into my palms.

She was looking down the aisle, her expression expectant. Seldom do you see that expression but I had seen it before and I recognised it. It was the look of a lover, waiting for a lover.

Then a man moved into the picture: tall, heavily built, wearing a black hat and a city suit. There was something horribly familiar about his broad back. He caught Jean in his arms and she flung her arms around his neck. They kissed the way only starved lovers kiss.

So brief, and yet to me it was like a knife thrust in my heart. Then he moved back, giving her a warning sign, and I saw his face.

It was Henry Chandler!

The telephone bell rang.

With a shaking hand I turned off the projector, then lifted the receiver.

‘Mr. Manson?’ I recognised Chandler’s secretary’s sharp voice. ‘Mr. Chandler is waiting.’

‘Tell him I am held up.’

‘He won’t like that, Mr. Manson.’

‘I’m sorry,’ and I replaced the receiver. I ran the film back into the cassette, took it off the projector, removed the plug, then moving like an automaton, I put the projector into my closet, the cassette in my pocket and pulled up the blinds. As I did so, the telephone bell rang again.

It was Chandler and there was an angry rasp in his voice.

‘What’s going on? I’m waiting. You’re holding up my lunch!’

I found myself hating him. The thought of eating with him, even looking at him, knowing Jean loved him, revolted me.

‘I have a client with me, Mr. Chandler,’ I said woodenly. ‘I can’t get away.’

‘Who is it?’ he barked.

‘Mr. Coulston, the advertising executive for Hartmans.’

Hartmans was one of our most important advertisers.

A pause, then Chandler said irritably, ‘Well, all right. Why didn’t you say so? Okay, I’ll send the stuff about Linsky over right away. I’m booked solid this afternoon. You read it and come to my place for dinner. We’ll discuss it, huh?’

‘I’ll read it and telephone you, Mr. Chandler. I have a long-standing date for tonight,’ and not giving a damn, I hung up.

I stared at the blank white wall which only a few minutes ago had shown me Jean and Chandler embracing.

She and he! That they were lovers was obvious. I had only to remember the expression of love and longing on Jean’s face to know that was a fact. How Gordy must have rubbed his hands when he had run off the film.

Henry Chandler, the leading citizen, the leading Quaker who had built the city’s church! Chandler, who owned the magazine who threw stones at people! Chandler who had amassed two hundred million dollars and was on first name terms with the President caught on a film in a self-service store (of all places) kissing a girl who had been his fourth secretary! No wonder Gordy had told Freda the film was worth a million dollars. If it became public property, Chandler was finished!

Sitting there, still shaking, I remembered his words when I accepted his offer to edit The Voice of the People . Those words now burned into my brain: You will be attacking the corrupt and the dishonest.

Remember you will be a goldfish in a bowl. Be careful: don’t give anyone a chance to hit back at you. Take me: I’m a Quaker. I believe in God. My private life can’t be criticised. No finger can point to me and no one must be able to point a finger at you.

You hypocrite! I thought. You bloody, bloody hypocrite! You set yourself up as the second God to be a scourge of the corrupt and the dishonest and you’re even worse than any of them because, behind your sanctimonious facade, you are a liar, an adulterer and a cheat!

I was shaking with rage and my body was cold. I wanted to ruin him. I wanted to expose him for what he was. I could do it! I could get Dunmore to blow up one of the frames and I could put the blow-up on the cover of The Voice of the People . I wouldn’t even have to write a commentary. That picture alone would bring him and his empire crashing down!

My searing thoughts were disturbed by the sound of knocking. I controlled mv rage, looked at my watch and saw it was 13.02. I walked unsteadily into the outer office and unlocked the door.

Judy came in.

‘Did you have lunch, Mr. Manson?’ she asked as she put her handbag on the desk. ‘I’ll get you a sandwich if you like.’

The thought of food revolted me.

‘It’s okay. I’m busy,’ and I went back to my office and shut the door.

I sat at my desk. Judy with her freshness and youth had broken the thread of my rage. I began to think rationally. If it hadn’t been Jean, who I loved, but for the sake of argument, it had been Judy on that film, would I have reacted the way I had been reacting? I knew at once that I wouldn’t have. It was because this rich, Quaker hypocrite had taken Jean from me that I had been in this revengeful rage. If it had been any other woman except Jean I would have been surprised, shrugged my shoulders and have destroyed the film.

I picked up my paperknife and began to dig holes in my blotter.

A man and a woman meet, I thought. Some kind of chemistry takes place and suddenly they are in love. Are either of them to blame? It had taken months for me suddenly to realise Jean was the woman I wanted: my chemistry had been diluted by Linda. Chandler had been ahead of me. When this chemistry explosion happens and when you are in a vulnerable position of a goldfish in a Quaker bowl, what are you to do? It would depend, I told myself, how big the explosion had been. If it was merely a sudden sex urge, then it should be resisted, but if it was real love...?

Chandler couldn’t ask for a divorce. Lois was the kind of woman who would fight tooth and nail to hold onto what she had. He would have to make the reason known and this would bring him down. So he was faced with meeting Jean in sneaky places like the Welcome store and God knows what other places for a hurried kiss.

So to keep his sanctimonious reputation, two worthless people had been murdered. Who had killed them? Certainly not Chandler. When you had unlimited money as Chandler had there was no problem to hire a professional gunman. Borg did all Chandler’s dirty work. He could easily hire some killer to walk into Gordy’s house and shoot him.

I paused in my thinking and realised I was letting my imagination run away with me.

Gordy and Freda had been shot with my gun. A professional killer would have used his own gun! So it was unlikely that those two had been killed by a hired gunman.

Then who?

I pressed my hands against my hot face.

Why should I care? I asked myself. Why should I care if a blackmailer and a drunken hustler died?

But I did care that Jean was Chandler’s mistress. The shock was still with me. She had said she was coming to the office this afternoon. I felt in no state to face her. If she came, I knew I couldn’t stay in the office. I had to have time to adjust.

I asked Judy for an outside line, then called Jean’s number. She answered almost at once.

‘This is Steve,’ I said. ‘Please don’t come in today, Jean.’

‘But I’m just on my way.’ Her voice sounded low and unsteady.