This seemed to me a good idea. With her help I undressed, crawled into my pyjamas and got into bed.
‘I think a double Scotch and ice would now meet the bill.’ I said as I rested my aching head on the pillow.
‘No alcohol,’ Suzy said firmly. ‘You could have concussion. I’ll call a doctor.’
I patted her hand.
‘It’s OK. No doctor. I’ve just had a professional tap on my skull. I’ll be fine tomorrow. Just get me a drink.’
She sighed and left me and I heard her mixing the drink. When she returned, I was feeling better. I was glad to see she had made a drink for herself. She sat on the bed beside me and regarded me anxiously.
‘It’s OK, baby,’ I said. ‘Don’t look so tragic.’
She took a long pull at her drink and shivered.
‘You scared the life out of me. Oh, Dirk, what’s been happening?’
‘Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about. I’m working on a new case. It would seem I have opposition.’
‘Oh.’ Suzy nodded. By now, she knew that I never talked about my work. I had drummed into her head that no Acme operator was allowed to talk about his case. ‘I can’t ask who Angie is?’
‘You can’t ask period.’
‘Right. I’m going to give you three sleeping pills and I’m going to leave you to sleep.’ She went into the bathroom, found the pills and returned. ‘Now be good, Dirk. You need a long sleep.’
‘I could do with your company in bed.’
‘No way. Take these pills.’
By the way my head was splitting open, it wasn’t such a bad idea, so I took them.
‘I’ll get my painter pals in tomorrow to fix that wall. How did these people get in?’
‘I guess they picked the lock.’
‘Right. I’ll get a locksmith here tomorrow to really fix your door. I’ll put the new keys in your mailbox.’ She bent and kissed me. ‘Now, sleep,’ and she left me.
I did sleep, and although I still had a bad headache, I had met Bill outside his apartment block at 09.15. He in his car and I in mine, we drove to the bank. As we were early, I sat in his car and filled him in about the previous night. He listened, nodding from time to time.
‘Looks like trouble, Dirk,’ he said.
‘Feels like it, too. But trouble is our business.’
‘Quick work, huh? Someone must have alerted these guys that you are investigating Angie. They went into action fast. Who alerted them?’
‘That’s something we have to find out.’
It was now close on 09.45. I slid out of his car.
‘I’ll give you the high sign,’ I said and walked into the lobby of the bank.
At least it had stopped raining. I sat in the comfortable chair, pretending to read The Paradise City Herald, and keeping one eye on Miss Kertch who was busy answering the telephone in a low inaudible voice, pressing buttons and looking sour.
Then suddenly, she rose to her feet and produced an autumnal smile, a few degrees less chilly than her wintry smile.
I guessed the big moment had arrived. I looked towards the bank’s entrance.
A girl had entered and was saluted by the doorman. She came across the big lobby swiftly. I had time to give her an in-depth look.
Thin as a matchstick; no front, no behind, she wore a big straw hat like those you see on the heads of peons working in the fields in Mexico. The hat was pulled down, obscuring her face. She wore four-inch sun goggles. Her clothes were a dark loosely fitting T-shirt, and the usual blue jeans every girl, all over the world, wears. She had on sandals. Her toenails weren’t painted. She could pass as any young girl tourist on vacation. As heiress to the Thorsens’ billions, she couldn’t have been more incognito than Garbo in her prime.
Miss Kertch was already leading her to Ackland’s office.
I hurried out to where Bill was sitting in his car.
‘The chick in the straw hat and jeans,’ I said. ‘You spotted her?’
‘I guessed she was our party,’ Bill said. ‘That’s her car, two cars ahead. A Volkswagen. She’s certainly keeping a low profile.’
‘OK, Bill. I’ll leave my car,’ and I slid in beside him. ‘We’ll wait and follow her.’
She appeared some ten minutes later. She had with her a small plastic briefcase, no doubt supplied by Ackland, and no doubt containing ten thousand dollars in big bills.
There was no problem following her. She drove at the correct speed, then turned off the boulevard and headed towards the waterfront.
She then turned left, heading away from the harbour where the rich anchored their yachts, turned down another side street and got onto the waterfront where the fishing boats were anchored and the riff-raff lived.
At this hour there was some activity. The fishermen were coming from the bars to board their vessels for a second morning’s catch. The young hippies were drinking coffee, gaping with sleep. Angela parked in an empty slot and Bill drove by her, swung the Olds into another parking slot and cut the engine.
I got out of the car in time to see her walk across the waterfront, dodging the heavy trucks and heading towards a row of bars, cafés and sleazy restaurants. I watched her enter a broken down looking dump with The Black Cassette: Disco. Drinks. Quick Eats printed across the facia in peeling black lettering.
Moving slowly, I crossed the waterfront and paused outside the finger-stained glass door. There was a notice pasted on the door:
After hesitating, I decided it was too soon to stick my nose into what could be a hornet’s nest. I needed information. I returned to the car where Bill was waiting.
‘Strictly for blacks,’ I said. ‘You wait here. See how long she remains in the joint. I’m going to dig for info.’
I made my way along the crowded waterfront and arrived outside the Neptune Tavern where I was sure I would find Al Barney. Like a permanent fixture, he was sitting on a bollard, twiddling an empty beer can in his hand while he stared gloomily out to sea.
Al Barney was known as the doyen of the waterfront. He claimed, and rightly, that he was a man with his ear to the ground. There was little he didn’t know about the waterfront’s machinations.
Balding, wearing a dirty sweatshirt and duck frayed trousers, he supported an enormous beer belly on his knees. Apart from collecting information, Barney’s main interest was beer and sausages dipped in some horribly potent sauce that would skin the mouth of any ordinary man, but on which Barney doted.
He and the Acme Agency often got together: the operators supplying him with beer, and he providing the operators with useful information.
When he saw me he gave me his shark-like smile and tossed the empty beer can into the sea.
‘Glad to see you, Mr Wallace,’ he said, ‘very glad. I was just thinking it was time for breakfast.’ He peered thoughtfully at me. ‘You feel like breakfast?’
‘Let’s go to the Neptune,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy you beer and breakfast.’
‘Spoken like the gent you are,’ Barney said. He heaved his bulk off the bollard and waddled across the waterfront to the Neptune Tavern. I followed him.
Once inside the dingy, dark bar room, Barney waved to Sam, the black barkeeper.
‘Breakfast, Sam,’ Barney said, ‘and let’s have some action.’
‘Yes, Mr Barney, sir,’ Sam said, giving me a wide, flashing smile. ‘And Mr Wallace? You like a coffee or something?’
Having tried Sam’s coffee, which was terrible, I shook my head.
‘Later, perhaps, Sam. I’ve just had breakfast.’
Barney was already seated at his favourite table in a corner. I joined him.
‘How are things with you, Mr Wallace?’ he asked. ‘OK? You look fine. Is the colonel OK?’
I knew the ritual well by now. Barney must never be rushed. He must never be asked questions until his third beer, and only when he had finished a plate of the deadly sausages.