We looked at each other.
‘I understand.’
I drove to the bank and paid in the cheque. I talked to Ernie Mayhew, my bank manager. This cheque would clear my overdraft, take care of my debts and leave me with a decent credit balance. I left the bank, feeling like a man who has shifted a ton of cement off his back.
Although I had been determined to talk to Linda about our finances, we had stayed so late with the Mitchells, the opportunity didn’t arise. We were both slightly drunk on our return and we flopped into bed. I had tried to make love, but she had moved away, muttering, ‘Oh, for God’s sake... not now.’ So we had drifted off to sleep and she was still sleeping when I got up, made myself coffee and she was still sleeping when I left for the office.
The morning was spent putting the magazine to bed. I decided that because of the attack on the Chief of Police I would increase the printing order by 15,000 copies.
After a desk lunch, I settled down to plan the next issue. While I was planning, the thought that I would have to talk to Linda tonight kept creeping into my mind.
This mustn’t happen again. I’m bailing you out. If you can’t control the situation from now on, you’re not the man for me.
I recognised this as a warning and I knew Chandler always meant what he said. So, tonight, I had to talk straight to Linda and she would have to accept the fact that we could not go on living at our present standards.
The coming battle — and it was going to be a battle — with Linda made creative thinking impossible. I shoved aside my chair, got up and began to move around my big office. I could hear the faint clack of Jean’s typewriter. I also could hear Wally Mitford’s voice as he dictated into a Grundig. I looked at my desk clock. The time was 16.15. I had two hours yet before I could go home and talk to Linda.
I lit a cigarette and moved to the big window that gave me a view of the city. Smog made it necessary for the cars to turn on their headlights. I looked across at the Chandler building. The penthouse, where Chandler worked, was a blaze of lights.
The buzzer sounded. I walked over and flicked down a switch.
‘There is a Mr. Gordy here, Mr. Manson,’ Jean told me.
‘He would like to see you.’
Gordy? The name rang no bell.
‘What does he want?’
There was a pause, then Jean said, her voice sounding a little troubled, ‘He says it is personal and confidential.’
‘Send him in in three minutes.’
This would give me time to put a tape on the recorder, switch on the mike, settle myself behind my desk and light another cigarette.
Jean opened my door and stood aside as a tall, thin man, wearing a well-worn, but neatly pressed suit, came into my office. He was around forty years of age, balding with a broad forehead, tapering down to narrow jaws, a thin nose, deep-set eyes and an almost lipless mouth.
I stood up to shake hands. His hand felt dry and hard.
‘Mr. Gordy?’
‘That’s right. Jesse Gordy.’ He smiled and showed small yellow teeth. ‘You wouldn’t know me, Mr. Manson, but, of course, I know you.’
I waved him to a chair.
‘Please sit down.’
‘Thank you.’ He settled himself in the chair, took out a pack of Camels and lit up. There was something about his movements, his expression, his arrogant, confident ease that began to bother me.
‘Was there something?’ I moved some papers to give him the hint I hadn’t time to waste.
‘I think I have information for you, Mr. Manson that would make an interesting article.’ He again revealed his yellow teeth in a tight smile. ‘I have been reading your magazine: quite first class: quite the thing this city needs.’
‘I’m glad you think so, Mr. Gordy. What is this information?’
‘First, let me introduce myself. I am the manager of the Welcome Self-service store on the Eastlake estate. I don’t believe you come to the store, but your wife shops with us I am happy to say.’ Again the lips lifted, again I saw the small yellow teeth: they began to make me think of a rat. ‘Every lady living at Eastlake shops with us.’
I had a growing feeling that there was something menacing behind this smooth talk and I was careful to look interested, to nod encouragingly and to wait.
‘Mr. Manson, you have created a splendid, vigorous magazine that attacks dishonest people. It is a fine, much needed endeavour,’ Gordy said. ‘I have read all the issues and I look forward to reading the next.’ He leaned forward to tap ash off his cigarette into my glass ashtray. ‘I’m here, Mr. Manson, to offer you information concerning petty theft in my store. It is called petty theft, but over a year, the amount of stealing comes to some $80,000.’
I stared at him.
‘You mean people living on the estate steal $80,000 a year from your store?’
He nodded.
‘That is correct. I don’t know why it is, but people do steaclass="underline" even well-off people. It is an oddity that, so far, hasn’t been explained. A servant working on the estate will buy ten dollars’ worth of goods and will steal two packs of cigarettes. A wealthy lady will buy a hundred dollars’ worth of goods and yet will steal an expensive bottle of perfume.’
This began to interest me. If what this man was telling me was true I could write an explosive article which Chandler would love.
‘You surprise me, Mr. Gordy,’ I said. ‘You have proof?’
‘Of course.’
‘What proof have you?’
He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another as he smiled at me.
‘In spite of the heavy cost, my directors decided to install camera scanners that cover the whole store. The cameras began to operate two weeks ago. My directors consulted the Chief of Police who expressed his willingness to prosecute on the evidence the film produced, providing the film was convincing.’ He relaxed back in his chair. ‘The film I now have, Mr. Manson, is so convincing, I hesitate to hand it over to Captain Schultz. I felt I should first consult you and a number of husbands whose wives shop in my store.’
I felt a sudden rush of cold blood up my spine.
‘I’m not following you, Mr. Gordy,’ I said and heard my voice was husky. ‘Just what do you mean?’
‘Mr. Manson, please don’t let us waste time. Your time is precious and so is mine.’ He produced from his pocket an envelope and flicked it on to my desk. ‘Look at this. It is a blow-up from a frame of twenty feet of film. I suggest it is enough proof, apart from the film, to tell you that Mrs. Manson has been naughty.’
I picked up the envelope and drew from it a glossy photograph. It showed Linda, looking furtive, putting a bottle of Chanel No. 5 into her handbag.
I sat still, like a stone man, staring at the photograph.
‘Of course she isn’t the only one,’ Gordy said gently. ‘So many ladies of Eastlake do this kind of thing. The film is very revealing. Captain Schultz would have no difficulty in prosecuting. Your nice, beautiful wife, Mr. Manson, could even go to prison.’
Slowly, I put the photograph down on my desk.
Gordy got to his feet.
‘This is, of course, a shock to you,’ he said, showing his yellow teeth. ‘You will need time to think about it and even discuss it with Mrs. Manson. We could arrange this sad affair. Before I give Captain Schultz this revealing cassette of film I could snip out your wife’s participation. I suggest $20,000 and you get the film. It is not a lot of money considering your success. May I suggest you come and see me tomorrow night with cash. I have a small, modest house not so far from your beautiful house. No. 189 Eastlake.’ He leaned forward, staring at me, his eyes like chips of ice, his yellow teeth now revealed in a snarl. ‘Tomorrow night, Mr. Manson... cash please,’ and he walked out of my office while I sat there, staring at Linda’s beautiful face, seeing her doing this mean, mean thing and knowing I would have to save her from prosecution.