1974 - Goldfish Have No Hiding Place (17 page)

I decided I had had enough for the day. I could hear Jean's typewriter clacking. I cleared my desk and went into her office. She paused, looking at me.

“When are you moving in, Steve?”

“Maybe tonight. I didn't see the lease. Who owns the apartment?”

“Western Properties.”

“Who are they?”

“Real estate people.”

“Max tells me the apartment is owned by Joe Borg.”

“That's right. He is in real estate as a sideline.” She sat back. “Mr. Chandler wouldn't approve so it is confidential. I help Mr. Borg let some of his apartments. I knew this one was vacant. That was how I could fix you up so quickly.”

We looked at each other. Her calm eyes told me nothing.

“Are you working late?” I asked.

“Another half an hour.”

“Well, I'll get off home. There are still things I have to clear up.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight.”

I drove home, took a shower and changed into casuals. I walked around the house. I had no feeling for it now. It was no longer mine. In two days, Harry Mitchell's parents would be installed.

I spent the next hour clearing up. Cissy had made a reasonable job of cleaning and she had cleared the refrigerator. I put my remaining clothes in a suitcase and dumped it into the back of the Merc.

I remembered that Freda had said she had parked the Mini on 22nd Street. I called a cab service. The cab took me to 22nd Street where I found the Mini. I drove it to an all-night car dealer and after haggling, he gave me less than a quarter of what it was worth.

The time now was 20.10. I spent half an hour in an Eat's bar, chewing on a hamburger and sipping a double scotch on the rocks. Then I remembered - it seemed I was always remembering - I had a date with Sergeant Brenner at the Half Moon bar at 21.00. I looked up the number of the bar and called.

When a voice answered I said, “Jake?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell Brenner not until ten o'clock.”

“Okay,” and the line went dead.

I finished my drink, then as I still had time to kill, I decided I would walk to 12th Street. I arrived at The Annex ten minutes before 21.00.

The Annex was one of those glossy bars with lots of mirrors, high stools, banquettes in semi-darkness, soft music and a barman with choppers a horse would envy.

The place was nearly empty. There were four couples supporting the bar: young, well-dressed, bored looking. I glanced around. Freda hadn't arrived.

The barman showed me his teeth. I said a scotch on the rocks. When I got it, I carried it to one of the banquettes and sat down. I had a view of the entrance.

At 21.15, just as I was getting worried, Freda came in.

She was wearing a light dust coat over an orange and red cotton dress. She carried an air travel bag, slung over her shoulder. She saw me and moved a little unsteadily to the banquette and sat down, facing me. She looked a little drunk.

“Mine's a double gin, straight,” she said.

The barman came over, took the order, came back with the drink and placed it before her.

We waited until he had gone away, then Freda said, “I'm on my way, buster.” She blew out her cheeks and fanned my face with gin fumes. “What a day! I've been chasing my goddamn tail until now. When a girl with my connections pulls out, she has one hell of a pull out, but never mind that.” She leaned forward, staring at me. “But in spite of the rush, I've had time to think. Blackmail is not for me. It didn't do Jesse any good. Who wants a million if you land up in jail or you get a bullet the way he did? Give me the money and the film is yours. I've got it right here.”

“You could be selling me any film, couldn't you?”

She drank half the gin, nodded, then poked an unsteady finger in my direction.

“Boy scout's honour.”

“Okay. It's a deal.”

“Let's have the bread, buster.”

I looked around. No one was paying us any attention. I took the fifteen one-hundred dollar bills from my hip pocket and shoved the roll across the table. She snatched it up and stuffed it into her handbag. Then she zipped open her air travel bag and gave me a carton of 16 mm film.

“That's it,” she said. “I'm on my way to get lost. Watch it, buster. That film is loaded with trouble and I'm damn glad to be shot of it.”

“Where are you going?”

“The moon won't be far enough.” She swallowed her drink, shuddered, then slid out of the banquette. “If that film can fix the sonofabitch who killed Jesse, it'll make my day.” With a brief nod, she was gone.

That was the last time I saw her.

8

I
t was a little after 22.00 when I arrived at the Half Moon bar. When Freda had left me, I took a taxi to my bank where they had an all-night safe deposit service. The film she had given me had already caused Gordy's death. I wasn't taking any chances with it. It wasn't until I had locked it safely away that I was able to relax. Sometime tomorrow I would hire a 16 mm projector and take a look at the film.

I found Brenner nursing a beer in the upstairs room. He looked sourly at me as I shut the door.

“I'm on early duty,” he said. “I've got to get some sleep. What's cooking?”

I sat at the table, facing him. I had to confide in someone and who better than a disinterested cop?

So I told him about Freda, about finding the film in Gordy's desk drawer, how I was slugged, how the film had gone missing, how she had told me there was a second film and it was now in my bank.

He sipped his beer, smoked, stared down at the table and listened. By the time I had finished, tiny sweat beads made his face glisten.

“Do you think Creeden's got it?”

“I hope so. If he has it, he'll destroy it.”

He thought about this, then wiped his hand over his face.

“As long as that film exists, we both are in trouble.”

“I know that.”

We stared at each other.

“What about this second film? When are you looking at it?”

“I'll hire a projector tomorrow.”

“I want to see it.”

“Who wouldn't?” I looked at the dirty white wall facing me. “I could bring the film and the projector here in my lunch hour.”

He shook his head.

“I'm not off duty until four.”

“Come to my new apartment?”

Again he shook his head.

“I'll tell you something, Manson. Goldstein has his eye on you. Watch it. You could be tailed. If he saw you and me together, it would sink me.”

“So what do we do?”

He thought about this, then said, “I'll check if you're being tailed. Give me your telephone number. If you're in the clear, I'll call you around midnight. I'll say 'Roger' and hang up. If you're being tailed, I won't call. If you aren't, we meet here* tomorrow night. Bring the film and projector . . .right?”

“Okay.”

He lit another cigarette and brooded for a moment, then he said, “Let's look at this set-up. Let's run through the suspects. There's you, me, Creeden and Latimer. Your gun killed the creep so that puts you way ahead of the rest. I'm thinking as Goldstein would think. But if this hustler is giving it to you straight, the second film is the money maker so that puts Creeden who has that kind of money in the photo . . . right?”

I thought about Creeden. He was rich, tough and ruthless: not a man who would stand for blackmail. If his wife had been stealing and if Gordy tried to squeeze him for something like a million dollars, Creeden could turn killer.

He had had the opportunity of stealing my gun, shooting Gordy and returning it.

But how did he know I had the gun?

I asked Brenner.

“Pistol permits have to be cleared in this city by an acting magistrate,” Brenner told me. “That's what Creeden is.”

“His signature wasn't on the permit.”

“He doesn't sign it. It's a matter of form. He okays it and the Chief of Police signs it.”

“So he would have known I had the gun.”

“Yeah.”

“I ran into him coming away from Gordy's house on the night of the murder. I ran into him when I got knocked on the head and lost the film. Damn it! It points to Creeden.”

Brenner showed his teeth in a cynical smile.

“Try to prove it.”

I scribbled down my new telephone number and gave it to him.

“I'm going back to my apartment now. Call me.”

“If you don't hear from me by midnight, you're being tailed.”

Leaving the Half Moon bar, I walked to the end of the street before I found a taxi. I gave the driver my new address and looked through the rear window to see if I could spot anyone following me. At this hour the traffic was heavy. All I saw was a mass of cars behind the cab.

Again I had a feeling of someone breathing down the back of my neck and I felt very alone.

When the cab stopped outside my apartment block, I paid the cabby, then took the elevator up to my new home.

I turned on the light and looked around. Strange surroundings and again I felt lonely.

Whoever Jean had found to arrange things in the apartment had done a good job. There was even a vase of roses on an occasional table, but they didn't help me.

I went into the bedroom, stripped off my jacket, dropped it on the bed, then went into the bathroom and washed my hands. Was this going to be my future life? I wondered, drying my hands on a towel. Alone? I thought of Jean. If she had been here, how the scene would have changed!

How wonderful it would be!

I wandered back into the living room and sat down. I now thought of the film I had locked away in the safe deposit box. If, when I ran it off, it showed Mabel Creeden stealing, what was I going to do? Hand it over to Goldstein? Thinking about this, I decided no. Creeden, fighting back, could involve me too and Linda's stealing would be exposed. At the moment, Chandler was leaning over backwards for me, but I was sure he would give me the gate if Linda's stealing became news.

I would keep the film as an insurance. Someone had the reel of tape with Gordy's voice threatening me with blackmail. This someone probably had the film showing Linda stealing. If this someone was Creeden, then he would hold onto this evidence in case Goldstein caught up with him. A clever defence attorney could shift the killing on to me.

I looked at my watch. The time was now 23.20. I would sit up until midnight, hoping Brenner would call. I lit a cigarette and tried to relax, but thoughts kept moving through my mind.

Then the front door bell rang.

I stiffened, hesitated, and after a long moment, I got to my feet, went into the lobby and opened the door.

Lieutenant Goldstein stood in the corridor. Behind him was a bulky man with cop written all over him.

“I saw your light, Mr. Manson,” Goldstein said smoothly.

“May we come in? This is Sergeant Hammer.”

I stood aside.

“I was just going to bed, Lieutenant, but come in. Can I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you.” He entered the living room, glanced around, nodded as if with approval. “Nice place you have here.”

“Just moved in. How did you know where to find me?”

He moved to a chair and sat down. Hammer went to the table and sat by it.

“We have ways and means,” Goldstein said and smiled his thin smile. “I tried to contact your wife, Mr. Manson. Apparently she is touring Mexico.”

“Is she? I'm arranging a divorce, Lieutenant. Frankly, I couldn't care less where my wife is right at this moment.”

I sat on the arm of a lounging chair.

“Is that what you wanted to see me about?” I asked, after a long pause.

“No . . . no . . .” He regarded me, his little eyes probing.

“That gun of yours still worries me, Mr. Manson. When it was issued to Mr. Borg for you there was a box of slugs to go with it . . . fifty slugs. Right?”

I felt a slight tension.

“That is correct.”

“You still have the box of slugs?”

“Yes.”

“They should have been returned.”

“In the confusion of the move here, I forgot them. If you will tell me to whom I should return them, I will do so.”

“We won't bother you with that. Let me have them now.”

“You don't mean you have come here at half past eleven to collect a box of cartridges, Lieutenant?”

“I would like the slugs!” There was a cop snap in his voice.

I shrugged and went to a closet. After a search, I found the box and handed it to him. He in turn handed it to Hammer who examined the cartridges.

“Six missing,” he said in a hard, flat voice.

“I loaded the gun,” I explained. “If you remember, the gun was stolen. The cartridges went with the gun.”

“Yes.” Goldstein stared down at his hands. “Mr. Manson, are you acquainted with Freda Hawes?” He looked up sharply and his eyes probed. It was a sucker punch and it had me floundering for a brief second as he meant it to do.

“Yes.”

I was back on even keel now, but the damage was done.

Creeden had warned me about Goldstein. He had slipped in a mean one and he had got his reaction.

“When did you last see her, Mr. Manson?”

I felt it time to assert myself.

“Why should I answer that question, Lieutenant?”

He leaned forward, staring intently at me.

“She was shot dead this evening. A cartridge case, matching these issued to you, was found by her side. I have reason to believe the gun that killed her also killed Gordy: the gun you allege was stolen from your car. So I ask again, when did you last see her?”

A long silence built up in the room while I stared at Goldstein. I felt a chill crawl over me and I felt blood leaving my face.

He and Hammer watched me the way a cat watches a mouse.

“She's dead?” I finally managed to say.

“That's right. She's dead.”

I hadn't lived in the tough newspaper world for nothing.

Somehow I pulled myself together and got my mind working.

“Well, for God's sake!” I said. “I only saw her a couple of hours ago!”

“You saw her . . . two hours ago?”

“That's right.” I was thinking fast now. “I'll explain. Ever since Gordy's killing, I have been wondering why someone should have killed him, as you have been. I edit a successful magazine. Gordy's killing is topical news so I decided I would investigate this blackmail angle you suggested to me. The only lead that looked promising was this woman: Freda Hawes. I wondered if she might tell me more than you, so I telephoned her. She was scared and planning to leave, but she wanted a getaway stake. She said she had information she would sell for fifteen hundred dollars. This sounded interesting. I got the money and met her at The Annex bar. We talked. She was half drunk and frightened. She said someone might kill her as Gordy was killed. She told me Gordy had a film showing a number of women, living at Eastlake, stealing and he had been blackmailing them. She wanted to know if she told me where the film was, would I give her money. I have had a lot of experience interviewing people and I was satisfied she meant business. I gave her the money and she told me the film was in a hidden compartment in Gordy's desk drawer. There is a little knob under the desk that releases the partition in the desk. We met at nine-fifteen and she left me twenty minutes later with the money. I was going to call you tomorrow to tell you to check the desk. I'm pretty sure when you do, you will find the film.”