‘Mr Thorsen died suddenly, a year ago?’
‘Yes, but not unexpected.’
‘How’s that, Josh?’
‘He was a strong-living man. Very — hot, fierce. Too much for his weak heart. He had been warned by his doctor many times. But he had to have his own way all the time.’
‘Did that make it difficult for you?’
‘Not me. I knew him, over all those years, but some people...’
‘Some people upset him easily?’
‘Surely.’
‘Did he quarrel with them?’
‘Not quarrelling, because he had business to do with them. He was very clever with money, those folks’ money.’
‘But he often lost his temper with them?’
‘Yes. With them, with me, even with...’
‘Even Miss Angie?’
‘Well, just that once, about Mr Terry.’
‘When was that, Josh?’
‘That day...’ He reached for another gulp at his drink.
‘Did you hear them quarrelling? Miss Angie raise her voice at him?’
‘I don’t listen to all that. It’s just voices at me. I did hear her say Mr Terry’s name, quite loud. Then she went out.’
‘Did you tell the coroner that?’
‘He never asked, and it was family talk, purely family talk.’
‘I am looking for Terry. It’s important that I find him. Can you tell me where he is?’
Smedley shook his head.
‘I wish I could, Mr Wallace. I would so much like to see him again and talk with him. I haven’t heard from him since he walked out.’
‘I’ll tell you why it is important that I get in contact with him. An old lady has left him one hundred thousand dollars. She was a Miss Angus and she was murdered. The money can’t come to him until I can contact him. One hundred thousand dollars, Josh.’
I waited, watching him.
‘The old lady was murdered?’ he asked, staring at me.
‘Yes. The killer must have found out that she kept all this money in her apartment at the Breakers where Terry lived. The killer was looking for the money, but he was too late. It is now in a bank, and waiting for Terry to claim it.’
‘I just don’t know where he is, Mr Wallace.’
I got to my feet and moved to the door.
‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘You have a son, Hank, who runs the Black Cassette Disco. Correct?’
He shrivelled back in his chair.
‘That is right, Mr Wallace,’ he said in a low, quavering voice.
‘When I first came here and Mrs Thorsen hired me, you telephoned your son, telling him about me, didn’t you?’
He remained silent, closing his eyes, his drink trembling in his hand.
‘Didn’t you?’ I barked, using my cop voice.
‘I talk to my son every day,’ he muttered.
‘You told him about me?’
‘My son is interested in what goes on here,’ he said after a long pause.
‘OK, Josh,’ I said, not taking it further. I had the answer. Smedley had tipped his son that I had been hired to watch Angela, and Hank had immediately given me a warning, spoiling my wall, and taking it further to underline the message, had sapped me.
I let myself out and Smedley seemed hardly to notice.
Back in my office, I found my note to Bill still on his desk. I sat at my desk and made a report of my talk with Josh Smedley. By the time I had finished it was 13.15, and I was hungry. As I was putting my report in the Thorsen file, Bill came in. I could see by his excited expression he had news.
‘Let’s eat, Bill,’ I said, getting to my feet.
‘Great! I could eat an elephant!’
Without further talk, we went down to a restaurant that was close by, just around the corner from the Trueman building.
We ordered breaded lamb chops and french fries: the special for the day. We both had beers. The service was fast. We had scarcely time to settle ourselves when two plates arrived with two enormous lamb chops and a mountain of french fries. The lamb chops were as tender as an old man’s leg, but we were hungry, so we chewed.
‘What’s new, Bill?’ I asked as I sawed at my meat.
‘The Olds is now registered in the name of Hank Smedley. Transferred to him some three months ago. How do you like that?’
‘I like it,’ I said and ate some of the crisp potatoes.
‘And...?’
‘Plenty,’ Bill said. ‘I got Hank’s address, 56 Seagrove Road, Seacombe. I went along and look a look. Hank has a pad on the top floor. The place is nice and with style. I then went along to the cop house and talked to Tom Lepski. I told him we were interested in Hank Smedley. As he had nothing to do, he gave out. The cops know all about Hank. Lepski dug out his file. Hank’s been in trouble since the age of twelve. D.J. Three times in a reform. Stealing, violence, beating up kids: a real hellion. Then suddenly he appears to have turned respectable. For the past year, the cops have nothing on him. He runs this disco. Every so often Lepski walks in, but it’s all respectable. Yet Lepski said he has a hunch that something is going on there, but he doesn’t know what. He itches to raid the place, but can’t get a search warrant. That’s about it, Dirk.’
‘Nice work,’ I said.
As we chewed I told him what I had learned from Josh Smedley, which didn’t seem to add up to much, but left a doubt or two, a whiff of a scent we would have to pick up somewhere.
While Bill was thumping out his report, I read through every word in the Thorsen file. The time now was 16.15. I wondered if Mrs Thorsen was back home. No harm in trying, I thought, and taking it slow, I drove to the Thorsens’ residence.
The humid drizzle had stopped and the sun had come out. I was in luck. As I walked up the drive, leaving my car parked outside the villa’s gates, I saw her drinking tea, under the shelter of a garden awning.
As I approached she regarded me with a cold, haughty stare.
‘I was under the impression, Mr Wallace, that I told you to telephone before you came here.’
‘I did. You were out. So here I am.’
There was a chair near hers so I sat down.
‘Well?’ She put down her half-finished cup of tea and continued to stare at me.
‘I have been instructed by my people to report progress to you and ask if you wish the investigation to go further.’
She stiffened.
‘What progress?’
‘You hired me to find out if your daughter is being blackmailed and, if so, by whom,’ I said carefully. ‘I saw your daughter collect the money from the bank. I followed her to a slum quarter of the waterfront. She left her car and entered the Black Cassette Disco. She remained there for ten minutes or so, then left without the money.’
Mrs Thorsen sat as if turned to stone.
‘The Black Cassette? What is that?’ Her voice was harsh.
‘It is an all-black nightclub. No whites are allowed.’
‘Yet you say my daughter went in there?’
‘Obviously she was paying someone in the club the ten thousand dollars. That doesn’t mean she associates with blacks, Mrs Thorsen.’
‘Then what does it mean?’
‘For all I know she may be contributing to a black fund; helping certain blacks who are living rough. I don’t know. But I do know that this club is owned by Hank Smedley, the son of your butler.’
Once again she turned to stone. I had to admire her. I could see how shocked she was, but her self-control couldn’t be faulted.
She sat for three long minutes, staring down at her beautiful hands.
‘Hank Smedley,’ she finally muttered, not looking at me. ‘Yes, of course. He used to help in the garden. I noticed my daughter and he were getting too friendly. He used to play with her. This was Angela’s growing-up period. She liked to romp and be stupid, and Hank, who was ten years older than she, encouraged her. I complained to my husband. He got rid of Hank. For a time Angela seemed to miss him.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘So it would seem that she still meets him, and now gives him money. How dreadful!’