‘Is that our funeral, Dirk?’ Bill asked. ‘We have been hired to find out if and why the girl is being blackmailed. The why and the wherefore of Mrs Thorsen’s motives don’t concern us.’
‘I think it could make this case very interesting. I can’t wait to see Angela. We have to play this smooth, Bill. I’ll go to the bank, wait for Ackland’s signal. You will wait outside. I’ll give the high sign, and you follow her from in front. We’ll both have cars. She is certain to be on wheels. We mustn’t lose her. She could lead us to the blackmailer.’
‘OK, Dirk. Could be that easy.’
‘Now, give me your report.’
‘This could also be interesting. I spent the morning going through the Herald’s clippings on Thorsen. Make no mistake about this, Thorsen was a big wheel. He was the senior partner of Thorsen & Charteris, the top stockbrokers in this city. They have a branch in New York, but their main business is with the super-rich in this city. Thorsen had a magic touch to pick the right stock or bond, when to buy and when to sell. He not only did big deals for his clients, but also for himself.
‘At the age of 35, already established as an up-and-coming broker, he married Kathleen Livingston whose father was Joe Livingston. Joe dabbled in oil, and just after the wedding, went bust on three dry wells. It was a lucky break for Kathleen to have hooked Thorsen as her family soon weren’t worth a dime. There were two children. Terrance and Angela. The clippings have nothing of interest to say about them, but plenty to say of the way Mrs Thorsen entertained and spent her husband’s money. She is regarded even now as one of the big social hostesses. People flock to her parties and generally scrounge on her.
‘Last year, at the age of 62, Thorsen was found dead in his library. He had a long history of heart attacks for which his doctor had treated him for some ten years. He had always lived at high pressure, making and nursing fortunes for himself and for some very influential folk in this city. It was no surprise to Mrs Thorsen or his doctor, and the death certificate was clear. Only thing the coroner, Herbert Dawson, showed interest in was how the deceased had managed to get a nasty wound on the temple, but the medical view was quite emphatic that this happened after his heart attack, when he fell and hit his head on a corner of his desk. His butler, long-serving Josh Smedley, testified that he heard a noise like a heavy fall, and hurried in, to find his master dead. He tested the breathing with a hand mirror from the desk. Death from natural causes, and sympathy for widow and family from Coroner Herbert Dawson, who it seems is a very good friend of Mrs Thorsen’s. She comes in to the money, to boost her entertaining funds, Miss Angela gets a trust fund, Mr Terrance gets nothing.’
‘Good enough, Bill,’ I said. ‘It’s interesting.’ I thought, then took my feet off my desk. ‘As you say, it’s not our business to do anything except find out if Angela is being blackmailed. All the same, I am interested in the Thorsens’ background. I wonder about the son, Terrance. I wonder also about the drunken butler. Well, let’s make a start and open a file. You know the colonel. When he returns he’ll want all the dope.’
‘I guess.’ Bill sighed and pulled his typewriter towards him.
It was close on 18.30 by the time we had finished and my mind was now turning to Suzy Long. This was the night when we always met at the Lobster & Crab restaurant, on the beach, among dozens of other such restaurants, but this one was reasonable in price, and the owner, Freddy Cortel, knew more about lobsters and crabs than the fishermen who caught them.
‘What are you doing tonight, Bill?’ I asked as I cleared my desk.
He shrugged.
‘I guess I’ll go back to my pad, heat up a quick-dinner mess, then watch the box until bedtime.’
Feeling a little smug, I shook my head.
‘That’s not the way to live, Bill. You should find yourself a nice, willing girl as I have.’
He grinned.
‘Think of the money I save. Suits me. See you, Dirk,’ and with a wave of his hand he took off.
I drove to my two-room apartment just on the fringe of Seacomb which is the slum district where the workers live. I parked my car and climbed up four floors in a creaking elevator to my home.
When I had first arrived in Paradise City, I found this furnished apartment going cheap, and decided it was good enough, although rather a dismal affair.
The walls were painted dark brown; the furniture was shabby and uncomfortable. The bed creaked and the mattress had lumps.
I had told myself that I wouldn’t be spending much time in the place, and as the rent was so low it made sense to take it.
All that changed when Suzy insisted on visiting me. She had taken one horrified look around and exclaimed, ‘You can’t live in a hole like this!’
I told her about the rent and she was duly impressed.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Leave this to me.’
Within a week, while I stayed with Bill in his tiny pad, with the aid of two of the Bellevue Hotel painters, plus furniture from the hotel storeroom at a giveaway price, Suzy converted my home into something lush. I loved it! Suzy purred every time she came in.
As you enter the apartment, you are faced with a large blank wall. Neither of us had as yet decided what to do with this wall. I thought of bookshelves, but Suzy was all for finding a good copy of a modern painting. We spent much agreeable time arguing about this, and I was getting the feeling she was going to get her way.
As I entered the apartment, I was no longer confronted by the blank wall.
Instead, scrawled in aerosol black paint in six-inch letters was the message:
KEEP AWAY FROM ANGIE OR ELSE.
He must have been waiting for me behind the front door. He was quick and very expert.
I just heard the swish of a descending sap, then saw flashes of light, then there was a complete blackout.
Two
At 09.45 the following morning I walked, somewhat flat-footed, into the lobby of the Pacific & National Bank to be greeted with a cold stare from Miss Kertch, the receptionist.
‘I will inform Mr Ackland,’ she said. ‘It is Mr Wallace?’
I was bored with this old trout.
‘Very efficient of you, Miss Kertch. It is Miss Kertch, isn’t it?’
Tight-lipped, she flicked down a switch.
‘Mr Wallace is here, Mr Ackland.’
Horace Ackland, looking this time like a bishop who has breakfasted well, appeared from his office and shook hands.
‘If you will sit over there, Mr Wallace, I have told Miss Kertch to alert you when Miss Thorsen arrives.’
I did just that and was glad to sink into a comfortable chair within ten feet of the reception desk.
I was battling with a life-sized headache which, in spite of Suzy’s administrations and five Aspros taken this morning, still plagued me.
I thought back on the previous evening.
When Suzy arrived to pick me up, she had found the front door open, the graffiti on the wall, and me dragging myself off the floor.
Suzy was one of the rare, unflappable girls who could handle any emergency. She helped me to the settee, saw the egg-sized swelling at the back of my right ear and, without talking, dashed into the kitchen, made an ice pack and held it tenderly against the swelling. After ten minutes of this treatment, my head began to clear, and I managed a wry grin.
‘Sorry about this love,’ I said. ‘I had an unexpected visitor.’
‘Just relax, darling. Don’t talk. You must get into bed.’