‘It looks like that, but it may not be so.’
‘I must talk to my butler about this!’ Her voice turned savage and she glared at me.
‘It would be better, Mrs Thorsen, for you first to talk to your daughter.’
‘To Angela?’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘She wouldn’t tell me anything. I really believe she hates me.’
‘There are complications, Mrs Thorsen. I haven’t been wasting your money,’ I said. ‘If you want me to go further with this, then it is up to you. Just tell me, and my agency will either close the case or continue it.’
‘What complications?’
I certainly wasn’t going to bring her son onto the scene at this stage.
‘Hank is dangerous, Mrs Thorsen,’ I said. ‘I would like to find out what is going on in his club. The police have tried, but have got nowhere. If I can find enough evidence of wrongdoing, I want to put this man behind bars. This is now up to you.’
There was a cruel, hard look on her gaunt lace as she said, ‘Nothing would please me more than to know that useless scum is in prison! Very well! I don’t care how much it costs! Continue the investigation!’
‘I will do that, but only on one condition, Mrs Thorsen,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘I ask you to say nothing about this to your daughter nor to your butler. Is that understood!’
‘I leave it to you to put that animal behind bars!’ she said, and the viciousness in her voice was startling. ‘I leave it to you, and you take the responsibility!’
On that note, I left her.
Four
I sat in my car outside the Thorsens’ residence, listening to the steady rain drumming on the roof of my car. I turned over in my mind the conversation I had had with Mrs Thorsen. At least she had given the agency the green light to go ahead with the investigation. As it was costing her, I decided she must get value for money.
I drove slowly along the high wall that encircled the estate. As I expected, I came on a narrow lane to my right, and I drove up it, still seeing the high wall. I hoped this lane would lead directly to the cottage where Angela Thorsen lived, and I was right.
Leaving the car on the wet grass verge and struggling into my mac, I walked up the short tarmac drive until I saw the cottage: small, probably three bedrooms and a big living room. Standing before the cottage was Angela’s beat-up, rusty Beetle car.
I arrived at the front door. There was no porch. As I pressed the bell, the rain dripped down on me.
The door jerked open. I was confronted by a large black woman who looked big enough, tough enough and strong enough to give Larry Holmes a workout.
She looked me up and down, then demanded in a harsh voice, ‘What do you want, mister?’
‘Miss Angela Thorsen,’ I said, staring directly at her.
‘On your way, mister. Miss Angela doesn’t see strangers. Beat it!’
I had my professional card ready and I poked it at her.
‘She’ll see me,’ I said in my cop voice. ‘Let’s have some action! I’m getting wet!’
She read the card, stared at me, then snapped, ‘Wait!’ and slammed the door.
So this was Hanna Smedley. I felt sorry for Josh. No wonder he had taken to the bottle. I stood there in the rain and waited.
Five minutes crawled by. By then, I was exasperated. I put my finger on the bell push and leaned on it. That produced some action. The door jerked open, and Mrs Smedley glared at me.
‘Well, come in! Take that mac off. I don’t want the place sopping wet.’
I took off my mac and hat and dropped them in a puddle of rain on the floor of the lobby.
She opened a door and waved me in, so I entered a large living room, comfortably furnished with lounging chairs and a big TV set.
I took this in with a quick glance, then turned my attention to the girl who was sitting in a lounging chair, looking enquiringly at me.
Angela Thorsen wasn’t wearing her sun goggles or her concealing hat. The dim light from the rain-filled sky fell directly on her.
I was startled. When I had asked her mother if Angela had boyfriends, I remembered her exact words: ‘Most unlikely. I can’t imagine any decent boy being interested in Angela. As I have said, she is not attractive.’
Mother’s jealousy?
I looked at this girl. She reminded me of Audrey Hepburn when she first appeared on the screen: the same classical features, the dark hair, the serious, dark brown eyes. OK, she had a starvation body, but shift your eyes to her face, you found sexual attraction.
‘Excuse me for intruding, Miss Thorsen,’ I said. ‘I am hoping you can help me.’
She smiled and waved me to a chair.
‘I hope I can, Mr Wallace. Please sit down. Would you like tea or coffee?’
‘No thanks.’ I sat down.
‘You are a private detective?’ I saw she was holding my card.
‘That’s correct, Miss Thorsen.’
‘It must be an exciting life. I often read thrillers about private detectives.’
‘A private detective’s life is far from thrilling except in books, Miss Thorsen,’ I said. ‘Most of my time is spent sitting in cars or talking to people who don’t cooperate.’
Again she smiled.
‘So you have come to me. Please, tell me why.’
‘I have been hired to find your brother.’ I was watching her, but her smile didn’t slip. She just looked interested.
‘My brother? Terry?’
‘That’s right. An old lady has left him money, and unless he is found, the money remains in the bank. I have been hired to find him.’
‘An old lady has left Terry money?’
‘Yes, Miss Thorsen.’
‘How nice of her. Who is she?’
I put on my mournful look.
‘That’s why my job is so dull,’ I said. ‘My boss just tells me to find Terry Thorsen as he has been left money by an old lady. He doesn’t tell me her name, but he did tell me she has left your brother one hundred thousand dollars. So I am making enquiries.’
She leaned forward.
‘Did you say one hundred thousand dollars?’
‘That’s correct, Miss Thorsen.’
She sat back and gave me her guileless smile.
‘How nice.’
‘Wonderful for him,’ I said, ‘but I still have to find him. Can you help me?’
‘I wish I could. I haven’t seen my brother for months.’
‘He hasn’t written to you or telephoned you?’
‘No.’ Her smile was replaced by a sad expression. ‘It grieves me, Mr Wallace. At one time, my brother and I were close.’
I couldn’t decide if she was telling me the truth, but if not, she was lying with impressive expertise.
‘Perhaps you know of a friend of his who would give me a lead,’ I suggested.
Sadly, she shook her head.
‘I don’t know any of his friends.’
‘I guess you know he was playing the piano at the Dead End club, then suddenly left.’
Her eyes opened a trifle in what could have been surprise.
‘No, I didn’t know that.’
‘So you can give me no help?’
‘I wish I could. I have your card. If I do hear from Terry, I will telephone you.’
I got to my feet.
‘I’d be glad if you would do that. It’s a shame. There’s this large amount of money in the bank, and your brother isn’t aware it is his.’
She nodded, then got to her feet.
‘It is a shame.’
Then I produced the question that would tell me if she was an expert liar or was speaking the truth.
Watching her closely, I said, ‘Do you happen to know where I can locate Hank Smedley?’