In my twenty-odd years as an operator, I have seen frightened faces, but none so frightened as this trembling, wretched little whore. Frightened? No, rather terrified.
I left her clutching the bill, shaking; I knew there was nothing more I could get from her.
I rode down in the creaking elevator and walked to where I had parked my car.
Back in my office, I found Bill at his desk, chewing gum and rereading my report.
I told him what I had got from Dolly.
‘Look, Dirk, I’m not with you. Why the interest in Terry Thorsen? We’re supposed to...’
‘Sure,’ I broke in, ‘but we have no real leads. I have a hunch that Terry could put us right. I want to find him and talk to him.’
‘Shouldn’t we concentrate on Hank Smedley?’
‘I want to find Terry first.’
He shrugged.
‘Well, OK, you’re the boss. So now what?’
‘For you, home, and forget all this. For me, I’m adding to my report, then home and early to bed. Alone.’
‘You OK, Dirk?’
‘Go home!’ and I waved him away.
As I opened the front door that had been fitted with two new locks, the keys to which I found in my mailbox, a smell of fresh paint greeted me. The graffiti had been painted over, and my home was back to normal.
What a girl! I thought, as I shut and locked the door. I telephoned the Bellevue Hotel only to be told that Suzy was handling an insurge of tourists and wouldn’t be available for at least two hours, so I couldn’t even thank her.
The following morning, I was at my desk early. I was just finishing my report when Bill came in.
‘Sleep well?’ he asked, but he knew better than to expect an answer.
‘I want you to trace an Olds. PC10001. I want it fast, and in depth.’
‘Right.’
He took off. Bill had now almost as many contacts in the city as I had, and very usefully he was a buddy with the officer in charge of car registration.
I finished my report, filed it, then went along to Glenda Kerry’s office. She had just come in and was going through the mail.
‘Hi, Glenda!’ I said. ‘The Thorsen case.’
She sat back.
‘What’s new?’
I gave her a synopsis of what I had learned, and concluded, ‘Angela Thorsen seems to be paying money to someone in this Black Cassette. Whether it is Hank Smedley or someone else, I haven’t found out. I can’t see a way of finding out without talking to Angela. I’m not crazy about doing that. Terry would be useful if I could find him. This case, if we’re going to get a satisfactory report, could take time.’
‘We are charging Mrs Thorsen three thousand a day. You had better see her, report to her, and ask her if she wants to go on. Maybe she won’t. Get her reaction, Dirk.’
That made sense to me, so I returned to my office. As the time was 10.20, I phoned the Thorsens’ residence.
I recognised Smedley’s slurred voice.
‘Mrs Thorsen, please,’ I said. ‘Mr Wallace.’
‘The detective gentleman?’ Smedley asked, after a pause.
‘That is correct.’
‘Mrs Thorsen is out. She won’t be returning until late this afternoon.’
I thanked him, then hung up. After a couple of minutes’ thought, an idea struck me. I immediately acted on it. Scribbling a note for Bill and leaving it on his desk, I went down to my car and drove to the Thorsens’ residence. With Mrs Thorsen out of the way I would have the opportunity for a talk with Josh Smedley.
I had a six-minute wait and tugged the bell chain three times, before the front door opened.
‘Sorry, Mr Wallace,’ he muttered. ‘Mrs Thorsen is out.’
‘So you told me.’ Using my beef, I moved forward and entered the lobby. ‘I need to talk to you, Josh.’
He gave way. He had no alternative. When I was in the lobby, he reluctantly closed the front door.
‘Excuse me, Mr Wallace, I am busy,’ he said in a quavering voice.
‘Let’s go to your den,’ I said, taking a firm grip of his arm. ‘I’ve a few questions to ask.’
He stared at me uneasily for a few moments, then he moved down the long corridor and finally came to a good-sized room with four armchairs, a bed, closets and another door I guessed led to a bathroom. Smedley was certainly living in comparative luxury.
‘Let’s have a drink, Josh,’ I said. ‘Scotch for me.’
He hesitated, then moved to a closet, produced a bottle of Cutty Sark poured two generous drinks into glasses and replaced the bottle. Over his shoulder, I saw a neat row of empty Cutty Sark bottles on the top shelves of the closet.
With a shaky hand he handed me one glass, then holding tightly to his glass, he lowered himself into a chair near mine.
‘What do you want to know, Mr Wallace?’ he asked, and as if to give himself support, he took a gulp from his glass.
‘Mrs Thorsen has hired me, Josh, to find out if, why and by whom her daughter is being blackmailed. I guess you know this?’
He nodded.
‘You know everything that goes on here, don’t you, Josh?’
‘I’ve worked for Mr and Mrs Thorsen for over thirty years,’ he said carefully.
‘I would like you to tell me what kind of man Mr Thorsen was. This is confidential, Josh, but it is important.’
‘Mr Thorsen is dead.’
‘I know that. What kind of man was he?’
‘Mr Thorsen was a hard man,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘I guess he had to be to get to his position. He drove me hard, but he paid well. Yes, Mr Thorsen was a hard man.’
‘He was hard on his children?’
‘Mr Terry, yes, but not Miss Angela. He wanted Mr Terry to go into his business. He had no patience with Mr Terry’s piano playing. Yes. He was very hard on Mr Terry. Finally, Mr Terry walk out. I was pleased.’ He gazed into space, his wrinkled face lighting up with a smile. ‘It was a very unhappy place here until Mr Terry left. After that, the place was all right until Mr Thorsen died. Then there was an upset. Miss Angela and her mother didn’t get on, so Miss Angela left to live in the cottage, and as my wife didn’t get on with me, she went to look after Miss Angela.’
‘You must have seen the two children grow up from babies,’ I said. ‘How did you react to Terry?’
Smedley stared gloomily at his empty glass.
‘Mr Terry was a good boy, Mr Wallace. He and I got along fine together. He would often come into this room and talk with me. He was interested in my past and my parents. It made him sad that my wife and I didn’t get along together. He told me he couldn’t put up with his father any longer. As soon as Mr Thorsen went off to his office, Mr Terry would go up to the music room and play and play. He was a natural genius. He couldn’t read music. He had only to hear a tune and he could play it. His father wouldn’t allow him to take lessons, but he didn’t want lessons. He just played. When he left, that was some two years ago, he came to me, took my hand and said goodbye. I was so upset, I just gripped his hand, and when he had gone, I cried.’
‘That glass looks empty, Josh,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong with a refill?’
He scrambled to his feet and lurched to the closet.
‘How about you, Mr Wallace?’
‘I’m fine.’
He came back to his chair, nursing another big Scotch.
‘How about Miss Angela?’ I asked. ‘How did you get along with her?’
‘When she was a kid, Mr Wallace, we got along fine, but when she began to grow up, she became difficult. She got to dislike me. I guess my wife put in the poison. No, I guess Miss Angela and me didn’t get along.’
‘Did she get along with her brother?’
He nodded.
‘They were very close. Oh, yes. I liked to see them together. When he left home, she changed. It was as if the sun had gone out of her life. Then when Mr Thorsen died, she moved into the cottage and my wife went with her. I don’t see her anymore.’ He drank and sighed, and I could see the sadness on his shrivelled face.