She reared back as if I had struck her.
“One hundred thousand dollars!” Her voice quivered. “I couldn’t possibly pay such a sum!”
“Those are my terms, Mrs. Hamel. It is up to you to find the money,” I said, still giving her my cop stare. “A woman married to a man as rich as Russ Hamel should be able to raise one hundred thousand dollars. Don’t tell me your husband hasn’t given you expensive presents. Look around: hock something. You have until the end of the week. On Saturday morning, I am sending my report to Mr. Palmer. It is up to you if the report is negative or not. Meet me here this time on Friday with the money. If you are not here, Mr. Palmer gets the second report on Saturday morning.” I got to my feet, then paused. “Oh, one other thing, Mrs. Hamel. Don’t go running to Pofferi. He is a killer. I’m not scared of him, but I have been in the racket long enough to take precautions. A copy of the second report is with my attorney. If anything happens to me, the cops will get it. I assure you, ten years in jail isn’t worth one hundred thousand dollars.”
I relaxed my cop stare and gave her my bright smile.
She sat motionless, staring at me, like a wax figure.
I left her, feeling pretty sure she would find the money.
One hundred thousand dollars!
Man!
The waterfront was teaming with life. Fishing boats, loaded with crab and lobster and assorted fish, were returning to the harbour. Tourists were standing around, gaping, with their cameras. Al Barney was chatting up an elderly rubbernecker, hoping for free beer.
I picked my way through the crowd, heading for Crab Court. As I moved off the waterfront and into a dark alley, I ran into detective Tom Lepski.
“Hi, Bart!”
I put on the brakes and gave him a smile.
“Hi, Tom! How’s the thing?”
He blew out his cheeks.
“Still digging. I keep asking myself who would want to knock off Pete and a boy of fourteen.”
“Like I told Lu. A grudge killing and the boy was unlucky.”
“Could be. What are you doing here?”
“Digging.” I began to move around him. “See you, Tom,” and started on my way.
Lepski’s hand dropped on my arm.
“Coldwell seems sure Pofferi isn’t here, but I still like him for these shootings, so keep your eyes open.”
I jerked my arm loose.
“If I see him you’ll be the first to know,” and I went on down the alley. Before turning under the arch that led to Crab Court, I paused to look back. There was no sign of Lepski, so I continued on, through another archway into a courtyard that smelt of decay. Kids were kicking a ball around. They stopped when they saw me, suspicion in their dark eyes. I kept on and into another courtyard. As soon as I moved on, they resumed their game.
There was a weather-beaten sign that read: Lobster Court. Across the squalid courtyard, I found № 2. I climbed creaking stairs. The building stank. The banister rails were ready to fall apart. Each step of the stairs threatened to give under my weight. I kept climbing. Sounds came to me: a T.V. set in full blast: a woman screaming abuse: a child crying: a dog barking. Finally, I reached the top floor. The roof made the top floor into a narrow attic. Ahead of me was a door. The heat up there was enough to fry an egg. Sweat began to run down my face. I rapped on the door and waited, having trouble in breathing. There was a delay, so I knuckled the door again. It opened.
Joey stared at me. His dark little face lit up with a grin.
“Hi, Joey!” I said. “Man! Is it hot up here!”
He stood aside and I walked into a small room with a skylight; three beds, a table, three chairs and a battered radio. Although the skylight was wide open, the heat in the room was like a furnace.
“Any news for me, Joey?” I asked, getting near the open skylight.
“Jimbo is watching, Mr. Anderson. They are still there.”
“Sure?”
He nodded.
“They are still there.”
“They could be moving.” I took out my depleted wallet and gave him another $10. “Keep close watch, Joey. If they move, I want to know where to.”
He nodded as he took the bill.
“Okay, Mr. Anderson. I’ll get over there right away and tell Jimbo.”
“Watch out, Joey.”
He lost his smile and a vicious look came into his eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Anderson. They killed Tommy, but they won’t kill Jimbo or me.”
“All the same, Joey, watch out.”
I left him and walked along the waterfront to where I had parked the Maser. Getting in, I drove along Ocean Promenade. It was time for lunch. I stopped off at a seafood restaurant where I ate from time to time.
The Vietnamese owner welcomed me and took me to a corner table. There were a few tourists, already eating, but it was early. The rush would begin later. I ordered the day’s special, lit a cigarette and considered my morning’s work.
Well, Bart, baby, I thought, you’ve certainly laid it on the line.
One hundred thousand dollars!
I began to think what I would do when Nancy Hamel handed over the loot. I felt pretty sure that somehow, she would find the money.
Once she paid up, I would give the Colonel the negative report. He would give it to Palmer who would give it to Hamel who, unless he needed his head examined would call off the surveillance. The Colonel would send in his account and I would be free to go off on my overdue vacation With one hundred thousand dollars in my sack, I would take off into the blue and Paradise City would see — the last of me. With all that green stuff, I could go where I fancied. I had always wanted to charter a yacht and cruise in style around the Bahamas and the other islands. I decided I would take Bertha along for company.
I ate the special while I continued to dream. Man! Would I have a ball!
Then an unpleasant thought dropped into my mind. Suppose Nancy didn’t come up with the money? Suppose she was stupid enough or smart enough to tell me to go screw myself?
What then?
I pushed aside my plate and lit a cigarette. This was a decidedly unpleasant thought, but I have always believed in looking at both sides of the coin. So, suppose Nancy didn’t produce the money?
Considering this depressing thought, it then dawned on me that I was in no position to put pressure on her. I was in as big a jam as she was. She was concealing two wanted killers, and, by keeping my mouth shut, so was I! If she either couldn’t raise the money or decided to call my bluff, I couldn’t threaten her with the cops. She would tell them I had tried to squeeze her for one hundred thousand dollars. Cops were always on the lookout for blackmailing private eyes. No matter how fast I talked, they would take me in and give me the treatment. Their first question would be to ask why I hadn’t blown the whistle on Pofferi as soon as I had known where his hideout was. I knew I couldn’t talk myself out of that one.
I began to sweat.
Man! I thought, this is beginning to look rough. Then I forced myself to relax. Take it easy, baby, I said to myself. It’s not the end of the road. You can’t expect to pick up one hundred thousand dollars without a little sweat. So be optimistic. It’s a 60–40 bet she won’t realize she is in as big a jam as I am. She could find the money, but if she didn’t, if she called my bluff, then that would be that. I would give the Colonel the negative report and that yak of Bertha’s about putting the bite on the rich creeps would be yet another pipe dream.
The chartered yacht and Bertha, popping champagne corks while we sailed in the sun, began to look out of focus. Still, on Friday, I might be lucky. Nancy might be waiting to hand over the loot.
I then turned my mind to Russ Hamel and the poison pen letters. This was a puzzle that nagged me.