“What is your problem?” she asked.
“I have a sick wife, madam,” Fleichman said, crossing one thick leg over the other. “I won’t bore you with the details. I don’t earn much and the medical bills are more than I can pay. I am in debt, madam. I need ten thousand dollars. Now, madam, the NYC police want Lucan. They know private investigators like me often watch Lucan.” Fleichman paused, then went on, lying smoothly, “They are offering any investigator who can produce strong enough evidence to put Lucan behind bars ten thousand dollars.”
The lie, to Sheila, was so obvious, she closed her eyes. To be blackmailed twice in a morning was something she couldn’t believe possible.
“You see, madam,” Fleichman went on, “I have to think of my wife, but I have also to think of you. I realize your nice life will be spoilt if you are forced to give evidence against Lucan. It is not as if you are one of many thousands of women who have fun on the side. You are the wife of a very famous scriptwriter. The press will have a ball if Lucan comes up for trial.” He paused, smiling sadly. “I suggest you are not without money. I leave it to you. I must have ten thousand dollars. I know the police will willingly give it to me, but if you give it to me I will hand over the tape, the snuffbox and the photographs and you’ll hear no more of this unfortunate affair. I will, of course, have to continue to watch you, but I assure you, in the future, if you step out of line, I won’t report it. In fact, madam, you will have gained a friend.” He gave her a big, friendly smile. “Do we have a deal, madam?”
She sat silent, looking down at her hands, gripped between her knees.
Fleichman waited. He was sure she would give him the money. Time meant nothing to him, but after minutes had ticked by he said, a sharper note in his voice, “Do we have a deal, madam?”
“I don’t seem to have any alternative, do I?” Sheila said in a hard cold voice.
She didn’t look up. “I haven’t such a sum, but my husband might have it in his safe upstairs. I’ll see. Wait here.” Still not looking at him, she got to her feet and walked out of the room. Moving like a shadow, Fleichman left his chair and moved to the living room door. He watched Sheila climb the stairs and disappear into a room down a short corridor. Silently, he ran up the stairs and peered into the room.
Her back to him, Sheila was taking a modern painting off the wall.
He saw the painting had concealed a small wall safe, and he grinned. He hadn’t thought it would be this easy, but then, after all, she was only a kid, and he had scared her witless.
As Sheila began to turn the combination knob, the telephone bell rang. She turned, then saw Fleichman standing in the doorway. She stifled a scream, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Don’t answer it, madam,” Fleichman said, moving further into the room. “Just open the safe.”
She moved so swiftly, he had no time to stop her. She snatched up the telephone receiver as he caught hold of her wrist, but she said loudly, “Sheila here. Who is it?”
Fleichman released her wrist. “Watch what you say!” he said, in a low snarling, voice.
“Sheila, honey, it’s Mavis.”
“Oh... Mavis,” Sheila made an effort to steady her voice.
“I couldn’t wait. Has that gorgeous hunk of man left or is he still with you?”
“He’s left.”
“Was he good?”
“So-so.”
“Honey, you sound flat. He looked marvelous!”
“Yes.”
“I must tell you. Sam turned up last night without warning. What a lucky escape I had! I was about to go out with Lew! Can you imagine? I’m almost a ruin. Right now, Sam’s snoring his head off. The way he went on, you would have thought he hadn’t screwed a woman for thirty years.”
“Well, that’s Sam.”
“You can say that again. Heard from Perry?”
“No. He’s on location somewhere in California.”
“California? He can’t be, honey. He’s in Florida. Sam saw him at the Jacksonville airport.”
“I thought he was in California,” Sheila said, aware of Fleichman.
“He’s probably cheating on you, baby. You coming to the club? Sam will sleep all afternoon.”
“Maybe. I must go, Mavis. My bath is running. Bye for now,” and she hung up.
“If the phone rings again, madam,” Fleichman snapped, “you don’t answer it. Get that safe open!” He stood back and watched her walk to the safe.
Ten thousand dollars! he thought. Money that would that get him out of deep trouble. A guy like Perry Weston was certain to have a load of money in a wall safe. Maybe he should have asked for more. There would be further doctors’ bills. He had this kid where he wanted her. Maybe he had better take a look, seeing she had now opened the safe door. As he moved forward, he stopped short.
Sheila had spun around. She was holding a vicious looking .38 revolver in her hand which she had snatched from the safe.
In spite of his toughness, Fleichman felt a sudden chill as he stared first at the gun, then at Sheila’s hard, desperate face.
“Put the snuffbox and the tape on that table,” she said. “I can shoot! I’ll smash your kneecap and you’ll be crippled for life! Do what I say!” Fleichman forced an uneasy grin.
“That gun ain’t loaded,” he said. “You don’t bluff me,” and he edged forward.
There was a bang of gunfire. He felt something like a hornet whizz past his face. He started back. He had never been faced with an experience like this, and his sagging confidence oozed out of him.
“Okay... okay.” He took the tape and the plastic bag from his pocket and put them on the bedside table.
“Now, get out, you filthy blackmailer!” Sheila screamed at him. “Get out!” She followed him down the stairs, watched him open the front door and walk unsteadily down the drive. She slammed the door shut and shot the bolt.
Then she collapsed in a faint on the floor.
Chapter 4
On this Sunday morning at 10:15, a police car pulled up outside Sheriff Ross’s office.
Captain Fred Jacklin heaved his bulk out of the car, slammed the door and ran up the wooden steps to the porch out of the rain that cascaded down. If anything, he thought, taking off his soaked slicker, the rain was heavier than the previous day.
Jacklin was a massively built man with rugged features and the cold grey eyes of a cop. Head of the Jacksonville State Police department, nudging forty eight years of age, he was known as an efficient and ruthless police officer.
He shook his slicker free of water, then walked into the office to find Sheriff Ross and Hank Hollis bending over a large scale map spread out on Ross’s desk.
“Hi, Jeff,” Jacklin said, advancing. “Looks as if this rain’s going to continue.” The two men shook hands, and Jacklin nodded at Hollis.
“That’s the way it looks, Captain,” Ross said. “What’s the news?”
“If you mean have we found this killer, the answer is no,” Jacklin said. “He could be anywhere by now. All we can do in this rain is to keep broadcasting.”
He pulled up a straight-backed chair and straddled it. “Roadblocks have been set up, but it took time and he could have slipped through. No motorist has reported giving him a lift. In fact, we are getting nothing from our radio warnings. He could have stopped a motorist while wearing the patrol’s uniform, killed him and taken off in the victim’s car. This man will stop at nothing. I’ve turned out the National Guard. They are sitting in their trucks waiting for the rain to stop. So right now, we are getting nowhere.”