1979 - A Can of Worms by James Hadley Chase Read Free Book Online

wouldn’t be back at the office much before 19.00. It was possible Harry Meadows, in charge of our lab, might still be there.
    I started the outboard engine and headed for Matecumbe Key.
     
    * * *
     
    Glenda was leaving her office when I arrived.
    “The Colonel around?” I asked.
    “Missed him by five minutes.” She gave me a cool stare. “Anything new?”
    “Not a thing. I tailed after her the whole afternoon,” I lied. “She behaved as any wife would behave, shop, window gazing, tea with a bunch of women, then home. Man! Do I hate wife watching!”
    “That’s part of your job,” Glenda said curtly, and took herself off.
    I went along the corridor until I came to the lab. I found Harry Meadows sitting on a stool, peering through a microscope.
    Harry was tall, lean and pushing seventy. At one time he was in charge of the Paradise City police laboratory.
    When it came for him to retire, Parnell had offered him the job of running the Agency’s small, but efficient laboratory. Meadows, who couldn’t imagine what he would do with himself once retired, jumped at the offer.
    “Hi, Harry,” I said, shutting the door. “Still working?”
    Harry glanced up and nodded.
    “Fooling really,” he said. “It passes the time, better than watching T.V. at home. What can I do for you?”
    I produced the lighter, still in my handkerchief.
    “See if there are any prints on this, will you, Harry, and lift them? I want them checked.”
    “I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow morning, Bart. Do you want the prints sent to Washington?”
    “Sure. I want the works on this one.” As I was turning to the door, I asked. “Anything on those poison pen letters Chick gave you?”
    “They were written on an I.B.M. 82C golf ball machine: delegate type. I got some smudged prints off the letters, but they have been well handled, and the prints amount to nothing. The paper is interesting. I have samples of all notepapers sold in this city. This paper is special. My guess it could be Italian. That’s a guess.”
    Knowing Harry’s guesses were pretty accurate, I filed that information away for future reference.
    “What happened to the letters?”
    “I gave them to Glenda with the report.”
    “Okay, Harry. Let me know if you find any prints on that lighter. See you,” and I went back to my office. Chick had gone. I sat down and did some thinking.
    Where had Nancy moved my hippy? I couldn’t imagine her bringing him to the harbour which was always crowded. It would cause a lot of gossip if anyone spotted him leaving the yacht. If I were in her place, I would leave him below deck until around 03.00, when the quay was always deserted, and get him off the yacht with every chance of him not being seen.
    I decided to spend the night down on the quay. There was plenty of time. I took my .38 police special from my desk drawer, loaded it and put on my holster. Then I left my office, and rode the elevator down to the garage.
    It would be dark in another three hours. I wondered if Bertha was free, but decided against calling her. She would land me with an expensive dinner. I warned myself I would have to conserve what money I had.
    I drove down to the waterfront, parked the car, then wandered aimlessly along, past the fish stalls, the fruit vendors, and towards the yacht basin.
    I spotted Al Barney sitting on his usual bollard, a beer can in his hand. I gave him a wide berth. Mingling with the tourists and the fishermen, I got by him without him seeing me.
    It occurred to me to go to the Alameda bar. I could take a look at Gloria Cort, Hamel’s ex-wife, and her boyfriend, Alphonso Diaz, and have dinner at the same time.
    I slowed as I approached the vast yacht basin. There were about six hundred swank yachts moored to the walk-around harbour. Hamel’s yacht was sandwiched between a sailboat and another motor yacht. The gangplank was run in, and Josh Jones sat in a canvas chair, whittling wood with a dangerous looking flick knife. His big