Джеймс Чейз - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place

‘Please stay at home. There is nothing for you to do. Come in tomorrow.’

A long pause, then she said, ‘Well, all right.’

I put down the receiver as Judy came in with a sealed envelope from Chandler.

‘Jean won’t be in until tomorrow,’ I told her.

‘I’m not surprised. I once had clam poisoning and it nearly killed me.’

When she had left me, I tossed the envelope into my in-tray. The Voice of the People was now such a symbol of hypocrisy to me I had no further interest in it.

I pulled my IBM towards me and wrote the following letter:

Henry Chandler,

I can no longer work for you. Accept this as my resignation from today. There is enough material for the next issue. The editorial staff of your newspaper will be able to bring out the magazine.

As you once said to me: goldfish have no hiding place.

Goldfish in a Quaker bowl have none at all.

I put the note in an envelope, marked it ‘Private and Personal,’ sealed it, then asked Judy to have it sent over to the Chandler building by special delivery.

‘I’m not taking any telephone calls nor seeing any visitors, Judy,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed. Say I am out and won’t be back until tomorrow.’

Her eyes popped open wide.

‘Well, okay, Mr. Manson.’

‘That includes Mr. Chandler. If he calls, I’m still out.’

I went back to my office and locked the door.

I spent the next two hours clearing my desk and putting all the material, the notes, the sketched ideas for the next issue of the magazine together.

I heard Judy answering the telephone from time to time. I wondered what would happen to her. My own future didn’t worry me. I had money in the bank, I was free of Linda and I could return to Los Angeles where I could become a freelance.

Finally, around 18.00, I had completed the clearing up. Everything was in order. One of the bright boys on the California Times could pick up where I had left off, but that didn’t mean The Voice of the People would survive. I hoped it wouldn’t.

Carrying my bulging briefcase, I went into the outer office.

Poor Judy looked bothered.

‘Oh, Mr. Manson, Mr. Chandler has twice called asking for you.’

‘That’s all right, Judy. Don’t worry about a thing. You get off home.’ I smiled at her. ‘Will you lock up? I’m through for the day.’

The telephone bell rang. Judy picked up the receiver as I opened the outer door.

‘Mr. Manson!’ she hissed. ‘It’s Mr. Chandler.’

‘I’m still out,’ I said and crossing the corridor, I rode the elevator down for the last time and with no regrets.

As I drove towards my apartment, I began to make plans. There was a midnight plane to Los Angeles. I would pack and get out. Once back on my old home ground I was sure I would be able to adjust myself. The loose ends like the apartment lease, my personal things could be tied up later, but this city was now suffocating me. I had to have four or five days away from it.

Looking in my driving mirror, I spotted the blue Mustang following me. I didn’t give a damn. I wondered how the cops would react when they followed me to the airport and watched me board a plane for LA. They couldn’t stop me. They wouldn’t know I wasn’t on an assignment for the magazine.

I left the Merc in the parking bay and went up to my apartment, imagining Taylor and O’Hara settling down to a long and dreary wait.

I unlocked my front door and walked into the lobby. The door leading to the living room was half open and I saw the lights were on. I was still carrying Max’s gun. Dropping my briefcase, I got the gun into my hand, then kicked the door wide open and stood in the doorway.

I was expecting to be faced by Webber’s men, but instead, facing me, looking a ghost of herself, was Jean.

Slowly, I lowered the gun.

As I stared at her, the thought came into my mind — the same thought that had come into my mind when I put the bottle of Chanel No. 5 in front of Linda — was this the woman I was in love with?

I continued to look at her and as I looked the fragile light of love flickered and went out. I was facing a stranger: white faced, gaunt, hard and perhaps even dangerous.

My eyes moved from her and I looked around the room. It had been wrecked. Every possible hiding place had been explored with frantic frenzy. Even the cushions in the chairs and the settee had been ripped open. The stuffing, like little white islands, lay on the floor. Every drawer had been emptied: its contents thrown anyhow.

I tossed my gun on the ripped settee and walked into the bedroom. That too was wrecked. Even the mattress had been slit open. My clothes lay on the floor. Every drawer had been emptied and its contents spilled everywhere.

I returned to the living room. She still stood motionless, pressed against the wall, her eyes like two red hot embers.

‘Joe Borg will love this,’ I said quietly. ‘He’ll probably sue you.’

‘Where is it?’ she said, her voice husky.

I regarded her, then I knew and I felt a cold chill run over me.

‘Is that how you looked when you shot Gordy?’ I asked. ‘Did you say that to him... where is it? Is that how you looked when you shot that stupid, drunken hooker?’

She lifted her right hand and I saw she had a gun.

‘Tell me or I’ll kill you! Where is it?’

I looked at the gun... my gun. That story about putting the gun in a sack of rubbish! She had kept it and had killed again with it! Looking at her, I was sure she was now mentally unbalanced and yet I had no fear of her. I was just sick that I had lost her, that my stupid dreams that she would get bored with this other man and then she and I could come together were finished.

I took the film cassette from my pocket and held it out to her.

‘Here it is, Jean,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you confide in me?’

She remained motionless, the gun pointing at me, then slowly her wild eyes moved from me to the cassette. She caught her breath in a retching sob.

‘Really?’

‘Freda Hawes sold it to me for fifteen hundred dollars,’ I said. ‘Here it is, Jean... take it.’

The gun dropped from her hand. She came forward and snatched the cassette and held it against her face, then she fell on her knees. She began to moan softly like a small animal in agony.

I picked up the gun and tossed it by Max’s gun on the settee. My legs felt unsteady and my head was beginning to ache. I was so very sick of all this. I sat on the arm of a ruined armchair and watched her, cradling the cassette and muttering to herself. This, I thought, must be a proof of love and I wished Chandler was here to see her.

Minutes ticked away. I just sat there, waiting.

Finally she stopped moaning and muttering.

‘I’ll get you a drink,’ I said and went to the liquor cabinet and poured a stiff brandy.

She was now on her feet, clutching the cassette, her eyes less wild.

‘I don’t want it!’

‘Drink it!’

The glass chattered against her teeth, but she drank the brandy. She shuddered as she set down the glass.

‘This really is the film?’ she asked huskily.

‘That’s it. You and Chandler. I’m leaving the city. If you’ll go now, I’ll be able to get on with my packing.’

She dropped onto one of the slashed cushions.

‘I love him. He is the perfect man. Ever since I began to work for him, I loved him. I would do anything for him. I have done everything for him.’ She stared at me. ‘You wouldn’t know what real love means. So few people do: to make sacrifices, to do anything for the person you love.’ She pressed her hands against her face. ‘The moment I met him I fell in love with him. It took longer for him to love me. He is such a fine, splendid man. We knew our love for each other had to be kept secret and yet we yearned for each other. It became too dangerous for me to work with him. There were so many prying eyes and we knew if we worked together we would give ourselves away. So he sent me to work for you. Yet we had to meet.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Those awful, furtive places: a movie house when I had to search for him in the dark, taxi rides that were dangerous, dreadful little bars and then the Welcome store.’ Her voice faltered. ‘We thought we were so clever going to the Welcome store early, but we didn’t know about the camera.’ She lifted her shoulders helplessly. ‘There was nothing more. Only the touch of his lips, the feel of his hands... that was all.’