“You’re doing the talking,” I said, leaning forward. “You tell me.”
“This man is world famous. The scandal and the uproar if the press got hold of this would be like an atomic bomb going off. A man with his imagination would flip his lid, but, apart from doing everything to keep this quiet, he would want to protect his wife. He would think her past was behind her. He would believe she loved him as he loves her. He would do anything — repeat — anything to keep her out of an Italian jail.”
“Would he if he finds out she is married to Pofferi? That could sour it.”
“How do you know she’s married to Pofferi? It’s only what the Italian police say, isn’t it?”
“There’s that, but why should they say so if she isn’t?”
Bertha made an exasperated gesture.
“You’re getting away from the point! The point is you can bet that Hamel will pay to have this swept under the rug whether she’s married to Pofferi or not.”
I thought about this and began to get a little excited. A man like Hamel just wouldn’t want his public to know he had been taken for a sucker. I was willing to bet on that.
“And listen, Bart, don’t let this fish jump off the hook. He’s good for at least a million.”
I gaped at her.
“A million! You’re out of your mind!”
“He’s rolling in money. What’s a million to a man like him... chick feed.”
“Wait a minute. He might turn ugly, babe. He might call the cops, and then where would I be?”
“Then where would he be? Where would Nancy be?” Bertha said. “You have him, Bart. It’s a cinch.”
And listening to her, suddenly thinking of what it would mean to own a million dollars, I kidded myself it was a cinch.
The first thing I did when I returned to my apartment was to call Howard Selby. I told him I was back from vacation.
“Keep that envelope, Howard,” I said. “I’m back on the job again. I’ll call you every week to tell you I’m still alive. Okay?”
“Sounds as if you’re up against a tough bunch,” Selby said. “Do you think they mean business?”
“No, but I’m taking no chances. Thanks, pal,” and I hung up.
I poured myself a Scotch and sat down. Bart, baby, I said to myself, here’s where you exercise your smart brain. I had been away from Paradise City for four weeks. I had been out of touch with any developments. Suppose Pofferi had been caught? Suppose Coldwell had found out who Nancy was? Man! Would I look a stupe trying to bite Hamel’s ear if that had happened! I sweated a little just to think of it. I could almost hear the clang of the cell door.
The quickest and easiest way to check would be to go once again to the Paradise City Herald’s morgue. I looked at my watch. The time was 19.40. Fanny Batdey would be on duty. Finishing my drink, I went down to the Maser.
“My! What a tan!” Fanny exclaimed as I walked into the morgue. “Did you have a good time?”
“You can say that again.” I rested my hands on her desk and leaning forward, gave her my sexy smile. “It all went too fast. When are you going, Fan?”
“Next month. I’m going to my folks in Georgia.” She sighed. “A duty visit.”
“Yeah, I know. Well, what’s new? Any excitements?”
“Nothing much. A few Big Wheels down here on vacation and throwing their weight around. No, can’t say any excitements.”
“Nor crimes?”
“A couple of breakins, but they were caught: hippies. A jerk tried to hold up the Casino. He lasted two minutes. I think that’s about all.”
I relaxed. If Pofferi had been caught, Fanny would certainly know about it.
“The same old city, huh?”
“I guess. There was a horrid hit-and-run case the night before last. Penny Highbee.”
I stiffened.
“The attorney’s wife?”
“Yes. A drunk driver. She was getting into her car, and this car came from nowhere and slammed into her. Two witnesses saw it. They said the car was swerving like crazy.”
I felt a prickle run up my spine.
“Hurt bad?”
“She died on the way to hospital.”
“Jesus!” I found my mouth dry. “Have they caught the driver?”
“Have they?” Fanny snorted. “Neither of the witnesses got the number, and one swears it was a blue car, the other a green.”
Nancy Hamel’s best and closest friend! I thought. Did it mean anything?
“We’ve given her a big write-up,” Fanny went on. “Do you want to see it?”
“No, I guess not.” I looked at my watch. “I guess I’ll get moving. I start work on Monday.”
“We all have to do it.” As I began to move, she went on, “There was that little Indian boy they fished out of the harbour, but he wouldn’t interest you, would he?”
I felt my heart give a lurch.
“What little Indian boy?”
“Just one of the kids on the waterfront. The cops reckoned he slipped and hit his head and fell in.”
“What’s his name, Fan?”
She gave a quick glance, but true to her reputation, she didn’t begin to ask questions. She got up and went to the card index, searched, then said, “Jimbo Osceola. He lived at Lobster Court.”
“When was this?”
“Last night.”
“Thanks, Fan,” and leaving her looking puzzled, I returned to the Maser.
I had an instinctive feeling that the deaths of Penny Highbee and Jimbo were connected with Nancy and Pofferi. I sat in the car and brooded. Could be, I told myself, that Penny Highbee had begun to suspect that Nancy wasn’t all she appeared to be. The two women were close friends. Maybe, Nancy had let the mask slip. Pofferi wouldn’t hesitate to put an end to Penny if there was the slightest suspicion she might blow Nancy’s cover.
I had warned Joey to keep clear of Diaz. Remembering his sly smile when he said he would, I now felt sure he hadn’t heeded my warning. Jimbo had got too close, and they had spotted him as they had spotted Tommy.
Where was Joey?
I felt an urgent need to talk to him. I drove down to the waterfront, parked the Maser and walked fast to Lobster Court. The usual bunch of kids, kicking a football around, paused in their game to stare at me.
As I headed for Joey’s building, one of them called, “Hi, mister.”
I paused. A dirty Indian kid of around nine years of age, ran up to me.
“No use looking for Joey, mister.”
I took out my handkerchief and wiped my sweating face.
“What do you mean?”
“He doesn’t live there no more. He quit last night.”
“Where’s he gone?”
The kid looked dumb.
“I don’t know, mister.”
I produced a dollar bill.
“Where’s he gone. .” I repeated.
He stared at the bill with greedy eyes.
“You Mister Anderson, mister?”
“Yeah.”
“He didn’t tell me where he was going, mister, but he said to tell you the guy was still there.”
“You’re sure you don’t know where he is? I’m a buddy of his. I want to see him.”
I produced another dollar bill.
“I don’t know. He took the bus. He had a suitcase with him.”
“What bus?”
“The Key West bus.”
“Okay.” I gave him the two dollars. “Listen, if you see him, tell him to telephone me.”
The kid grabbed the money and grinned.
“Betcha, mister.”
As I headed back to my apartment, I felt worried and lonely. I decided I didn’t want to spend the night alone. I changed direction and drove to Bertha’s highrise.
I found her still unpacking.
“Why, honey,” she exclaimed as she opened the front door. “What’s with it? I’m in a hell of a mess.”