printers and asked if they could have pulls of the Hammond article in an hour.
Because Chandler owned the works, they said they would.
I looked at my watch. I had three-quarters of an hour before I need leave the office. In the bustle, I had forgotten Stanstead hadn't telephoned.
I called the hospital. Stanstead apologised for not calling me.
“He's been operated on. I would have called you sooner but Mr. Borg has been taking up my time.”
“Borg?”
“That's right. He represents Mr. Chandler, doesn't he? Wally will be all right. In a couple of days, now the pressure on the brain has been removed, he'll be able to have visitors. Mr. Borg wants to get him to some clinic in Miami as soon as it is safe for him to travel. Mr. Chandler certainly looks after his staff.”
“In a couple of days, I can talk to him?”
“I think so. The police have priority. Lieutenant Goldstein is already pressing.”
“I'll call you Friday.”
“Do that.”
I sat for a long moment, thinking. Would Wally give the police the story about Gordy? I was sure Shirley would be the first to see him and she must be told to warn Wally to say nothing. I telephoned Wally's house but got no reply.
Shirley was probably still at the hospital. Well, I had two days. It was time I was moving. I locked up the office and went down to my car.
I stopped off at the printers and collected the damp pulls of the Hammond article. I paused to look them over. They looked good to me. Then I drove uptown to Chandler's opulent house, arriving there at 19.05. I saw Jean's Porsche already parked. The butler, imported from England, took me into a vast lounge: every piece of furniture had a history and a price, and the paintings in the gilt frames, lit by special lighting, were all museum treasures.
“Come on in, Steve,” Chandler said.
Jean, looking lovely in a simple white dress, was nursing a dry martini. Lois Chandler was sitting by her side and she smiled at me as I came forward.
Lois Chandler was some twenty years younger than her husband and that would make her thirty-six or -seven. She was tall, elegant and sophisticated. She appeared to have nothing else to do except entertain her husband's guests, buy clothes, visit beauty parlours and look glamorous. She was so immaculate that I had the feeling that if I touched her it would be like touching a masterpiece in oils that had not completely dried. Her hair, thick and impressively groomed, was tinted sable. Her large green eyes, her rather sharp little nose, her sensual mouth and her determined chin explained why Chandler had married her and doted on her.
“You are a stranger, Steve,” she said, smiling at me. “We don't see enough of you.”
We all made small talk while drinks were served, then we went into dinner which was formal and over-rich and while we ate Chandler talked about his visit to Washington. We were told how the President was looking, that Chandler thought the inflation problem was on the way to being solved, that the President and he were now on first name terms. While we were being served dessert, Lois suddenly broke in, looking at her husband as she said, “Darling, aren't you monopolising the conversation? I want to hear from Steve about this odd murder at Eastlake.”
“You're right, honey.” Chandler beamed at her.
“Murder? What has happened?”
Lois looked at me.
“You can tell us. Who is this man and why was he shot?”
“I have no idea why he was shot,” I said, aware she was staring curiously at me. “He managed the Welcome Self-service store.”
“I know that! It was in the paper, but why?”
“Even the police don't know. Someone walked into his house and shot him dead. That's all I know.” I saw Chandler was looking bored.
“Some drug addict after money,” he said impatiently. “It happens every day.”
“But surely on the Eastlake estate there are many more prosperous homes to go to?” Lois said, still looking at me.
“I don't suppose this man
Because Chandler owned the works, they said they would.
I looked at my watch. I had three-quarters of an hour before I need leave the office. In the bustle, I had forgotten Stanstead hadn't telephoned.
I called the hospital. Stanstead apologised for not calling me.
“He's been operated on. I would have called you sooner but Mr. Borg has been taking up my time.”
“Borg?”
“That's right. He represents Mr. Chandler, doesn't he? Wally will be all right. In a couple of days, now the pressure on the brain has been removed, he'll be able to have visitors. Mr. Borg wants to get him to some clinic in Miami as soon as it is safe for him to travel. Mr. Chandler certainly looks after his staff.”
“In a couple of days, I can talk to him?”
“I think so. The police have priority. Lieutenant Goldstein is already pressing.”
“I'll call you Friday.”
“Do that.”
I sat for a long moment, thinking. Would Wally give the police the story about Gordy? I was sure Shirley would be the first to see him and she must be told to warn Wally to say nothing. I telephoned Wally's house but got no reply.
Shirley was probably still at the hospital. Well, I had two days. It was time I was moving. I locked up the office and went down to my car.
I stopped off at the printers and collected the damp pulls of the Hammond article. I paused to look them over. They looked good to me. Then I drove uptown to Chandler's opulent house, arriving there at 19.05. I saw Jean's Porsche already parked. The butler, imported from England, took me into a vast lounge: every piece of furniture had a history and a price, and the paintings in the gilt frames, lit by special lighting, were all museum treasures.
“Come on in, Steve,” Chandler said.
Jean, looking lovely in a simple white dress, was nursing a dry martini. Lois Chandler was sitting by her side and she smiled at me as I came forward.
Lois Chandler was some twenty years younger than her husband and that would make her thirty-six or -seven. She was tall, elegant and sophisticated. She appeared to have nothing else to do except entertain her husband's guests, buy clothes, visit beauty parlours and look glamorous. She was so immaculate that I had the feeling that if I touched her it would be like touching a masterpiece in oils that had not completely dried. Her hair, thick and impressively groomed, was tinted sable. Her large green eyes, her rather sharp little nose, her sensual mouth and her determined chin explained why Chandler had married her and doted on her.
“You are a stranger, Steve,” she said, smiling at me. “We don't see enough of you.”
We all made small talk while drinks were served, then we went into dinner which was formal and over-rich and while we ate Chandler talked about his visit to Washington. We were told how the President was looking, that Chandler thought the inflation problem was on the way to being solved, that the President and he were now on first name terms. While we were being served dessert, Lois suddenly broke in, looking at her husband as she said, “Darling, aren't you monopolising the conversation? I want to hear from Steve about this odd murder at Eastlake.”
“You're right, honey.” Chandler beamed at her.
“Murder? What has happened?”
Lois looked at me.
“You can tell us. Who is this man and why was he shot?”
“I have no idea why he was shot,” I said, aware she was staring curiously at me. “He managed the Welcome Self-service store.”
“I know that! It was in the paper, but why?”
“Even the police don't know. Someone walked into his house and shot him dead. That's all I know.” I saw Chandler was looking bored.
“Some drug addict after money,” he said impatiently. “It happens every day.”
“But surely on the Eastlake estate there are many more prosperous homes to go to?” Lois said, still looking at me.
“I don't suppose this man
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