1979 - A Can of Worms by James Hadley Chase Page A

Hamel. If I hadn’t your interests at heart, I would now fold my tent and creep away, but may I suggest you give me a hearing?”
    “If you don’t leave me immediately, I will call a waiter!” The snap in her voice warned me she meant just what she was saying.
    So I had to give it to her the hard way. I took out my business card and placed it on the table so she could read it.
    “Your husband has hired me to watch you, Mrs. Hamel.”
    Man! Did that hit her where she lived! The colour went out of her face, her eyes receded into her face, and she shrivelled. For a long moment, she remained motionless, staring at the card, then I saw a little shiver run through her.
    I gave her time. I didn’t sit, gloating. I looked away at a dizzy dish who was crossing the terrace to the pool. She was long legged, high breasted and blonde: the kind of babe I like to bed with when my wallet is stuffed with the green. I watched her swing her tail, and I wasn’t the only one watching. The fat, old finks with white hair on their chests and knotted veins in their spindly legs were also watching.
    When the dish had tail-wagged herself out of sight, I turned to look at Nancy.
    She still sat motionless, staring down at my business card.
    “To understand the situation,” I said, keeping my voice low and gentle, “I think you should read these two letters your husband has received. They are the reason why he has hired me to watch you.”
    She looked up then. Her eyes were like holes in a white sheet.
    I took the two letters from my wallet, took them from their envelopes and placed them on the table.
    She picked them up. The blue tinted paper rustled in her trembling fingers. I lit a cigarette and waited. I had all the time in the world. A setup like this should never be hurried. I didn’t watch her, but shifted my eyes to an elderly couple who had sat down, four tables away. The woman, nudging sixty, was a dyed blonde. She had crushed her fat into a bikini. The man was dyed black.
    He had breasts like a woman, and body hair a chimp might envy.
    People! I thought. The Oldies! They hang on with grim tenacity. The graveyard is around the corner, but they stay in the ring, feebly punching.
    Nancy laid the letters back on the table.
    “My husband wrote those letters,” she said. “Waldo Carmichael is the name of his leading character in the book he is now writing.”
    I gaped at her. For a long moment, I sat as still as she was sitting. Then I pulled myself together.
    “Mrs. Hamel . . . there must be some mistake.”
    “There is no mistake. My husband uses this notepaper. I recognize the typing. He wrote these letters.”
    “But why?”
    She looked directly at me.
    “He wanted an excuse to hire a detective.”
    I got back on even keel. He wanted an excuse to hire a detective. My brain raced. Could be, but why have his wife watched?
    I picked up the letters, folded them and put them back in my wallet, my brain still racing. I was aware she was now watching me. I kept my expression deadpan.
    “There are complications, Mrs. Hamel,” I said finally.
    “As I told you, I am in a quandary. I have been watching you for the past four days. I am supposed to turn in a report, covering your movements at the end of the week.”
    Still very tense, she looked straight at me.
    “What complications?” she asked, her voice husky. “Send in your report. It can contain nothing that would upset my husband,” and she made a move to get up.
    “Don’t go, Mrs. Hamel,” I said. “Two days ago, I followed you in your yacht in a chopper to the pirates’ islands.”
    She closed her eyes and her hands turned into fists.
    “So you see, Mrs. Hamel, I am in a quandary,” I went on, watching her. “I came across Aldo Pofferi, a wanted murderer, on the island. You and your crewman, Jones, got Pofferi and his wife off the island. I even know where they are hiding. If I turned in a report covering these facts, don’t you think your husband would be