Judy came in.
‘Did you have lunch, Mr. Manson?’ she asked as she put her handbag on the desk. ‘I’ll get you a sandwich if you like.’
The thought of food revolted me.
‘It’s okay. I’m busy,’ and I went back to my office and shut the door.
I sat at my desk. Judy with her freshness and youth had broken the thread of my rage. I began to think rationally. If it hadn’t been Jean, who I loved, but for the sake of argument, it had been Judy on that film, would I have reacted the way I had been reacting? I knew at once that I wouldn’t have. It was because this rich, Quaker hypocrite had taken Jean from me that I had been in this revengeful rage. If it had been any other woman except Jean I would have been surprised, shrugged my shoulders and have destroyed the film.
I picked up my paperknife and began to dig holes in my blotter.
A man and a woman meet, I thought. Some kind of chemistry takes place and suddenly they are in love. Are either of them to blame? It had taken months for me suddenly to realise Jean was the woman I wanted: my chemistry had been diluted by Linda. Chandler had been ahead of me. When this chemistry explosion happens and when you are in a vulnerable position of a goldfish in a Quaker bowl, what are you to do? It would depend, I told myself, how big the explosion had been. If it was merely a sudden sex urge, then it should be resisted, but if it was real love...?
Chandler couldn’t ask for a divorce. Lois was the kind of woman who would fight tooth and nail to hold onto what she had. He would have to make the reason known and this would bring him down. So he was faced with meeting Jean in sneaky places like the Welcome store and God knows what other places for a hurried kiss.
So to keep his sanctimonious reputation, two worthless people had been murdered. Who had killed them? Certainly not Chandler. When you had unlimited money as Chandler had there was no problem to hire a professional gunman. Borg did all Chandler’s dirty work. He could easily hire some killer to walk into Gordy’s house and shoot him.
I paused in my thinking and realised I was letting my imagination run away with me.
Gordy and Freda had been shot with my gun. A professional killer would have used his own gun! So it was unlikely that those two had been killed by a hired gunman.
Then who?
I pressed my hands against my hot face.
Why should I care? I asked myself. Why should I care if a blackmailer and a drunken hustler died?
But I did care that Jean was Chandler’s mistress. The shock was still with me. She had said she was coming to the office this afternoon. I felt in no state to face her. If she came, I knew I couldn’t stay in the office. I had to have time to adjust.
I asked Judy for an outside line, then called Jean’s number. She answered almost at once.
‘This is Steve,’ I said. ‘Please don’t come in today, Jean.’
‘But I’m just on my way.’ Her voice sounded low and unsteady.
‘Please stay at home. There is nothing for you to do. Come in tomorrow.’
A long pause, then she said, ‘Well, all right.’
I put down the receiver as Judy came in with a sealed envelope from Chandler.
‘Jean won’t be in until tomorrow,’ I told her.
‘I’m not surprised. I once had clam poisoning and it nearly killed me.’
When she had left me, I tossed the envelope into my in-tray. The Voice of the People was now such a symbol of hypocrisy to me I had no further interest in it.
I pulled my IBM towards me and wrote the following letter:
Henry Chandler,
I can no longer work for you. Accept this as my resignation from today. There is enough material for the next issue. The editorial staff of your newspaper will be able to bring out the magazine.
As you once said to me: goldfish have no hiding place.
Goldfish in a Quaker bowl have none at all.
I put the note in an envelope, marked it ‘Private and Personal,’ sealed it, then asked Judy to have it sent over to the Chandler building by special delivery.
‘I’m not taking any telephone calls nor seeing any visitors, Judy,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed. Say I am out and won’t be back until tomorrow.’
Her eyes popped open wide.
‘Well, okay, Mr. Manson.’
‘That includes Mr. Chandler. If he calls, I’m still out.’
I went back to my office and locked the door.
I spent the next two hours clearing my desk and putting all the material, the notes, the sketched ideas for the next issue of the magazine together.
I heard Judy answering the telephone from time to time. I wondered what would happen to her. My own future didn’t worry me. I had money in the bank, I was free of Linda and I could return to Los Angeles where I could become a freelance.
Finally, around 18.00, I had completed the clearing up. Everything was in order. One of the bright boys on the California Times could pick up where I had left off, but that didn’t mean The Voice of the People would survive. I hoped it wouldn’t.
Carrying my bulging briefcase, I went into the outer office.
Poor Judy looked bothered.
‘Oh, Mr. Manson, Mr. Chandler has twice called asking for you.’
‘That’s all right, Judy. Don’t worry about a thing. You get off home.’ I smiled at her. ‘Will you lock up? I’m through for the day.’
The telephone bell rang. Judy picked up the receiver as I opened the outer door.
‘Mr. Manson!’ she hissed. ‘It’s Mr. Chandler.’
‘I’m still out,’ I said and crossing the corridor, I rode the elevator down for the last time and with no regrets.
As I drove towards my apartment, I began to make plans. There was a midnight plane to Los Angeles. I would pack and get out. Once back on my old home ground I was sure I would be able to adjust myself. The loose ends like the apartment lease, my personal things could be tied up later, but this city was now suffocating me. I had to have four or five days away from it.
Looking in my driving mirror, I spotted the blue Mustang following me. I didn’t give a damn. I wondered how the cops would react when they followed me to the airport and watched me board a plane for LA. They couldn’t stop me. They wouldn’t know I wasn’t on an assignment for the magazine.
I left the Merc in the parking bay and went up to my apartment, imagining Taylor and O’Hara settling down to a long and dreary wait.
I unlocked my front door and walked into the lobby. The door leading to the living room was half open and I saw the lights were on. I was still carrying Max’s gun. Dropping my briefcase, I got the gun into my hand, then kicked the door wide open and stood in the doorway.
I was expecting to be faced by Webber’s men, but instead, facing me, looking a ghost of herself, was Jean.
Slowly, I lowered the gun.
As I stared at her, the thought came into my mind — the same thought that had come into my mind when I put the bottle of Chanel No. 5 in front of Linda — was this the woman I was in love with?
I continued to look at her and as I looked the fragile light of love flickered and went out. I was facing a stranger: white faced, gaunt, hard and perhaps even dangerous.
My eyes moved from her and I looked around the room. It had been wrecked. Every possible hiding place had been explored with frantic frenzy. Even the cushions in the chairs and the settee had been ripped open. The stuffing, like little white islands, lay on the floor. Every drawer had been emptied: its contents thrown anyhow.
I tossed my gun on the ripped settee and walked into the bedroom. That too was wrecked. Even the mattress had been slit open. My clothes lay on the floor. Every drawer had been emptied and its contents spilled everywhere.