1984 - Hit Them Where it Hurts by James Hadley Chase Read Free Book Online Page B

door.
    ‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘You have a son, Hank, who runs the Black Cassette Disco. Correct?’
    He shrivelled back in his chair.
    ‘That is right, Mr. Wallace,’ he said in a low, quavering voice.
    ‘When I first came here and Mrs. Thorsen hired me, you telephoned your son, telling him about me, didn’t you?’
    He remained silent, closing his eyes, his drink trembling in his hand.
    ‘Didn’t you?’ I barked, using my cop voice.
    ‘I talk to my son every day,’ he muttered.
    ‘You told him about me?’
    ‘My son is interested in what goes on here,’ he said after a long pause.
    ‘OK, Josh,’ I said, not taking it further. I had the answer. Smedley had tipped his son that I had been hired to watch Angela, and Hank had immediately given me a warning, spoiling my wall, and taking it further to underline the message, had sapped me.
    I let myself out and Smedley seemed hardly to notice.
    Back in my office, I found my note to Bill still on his desk. I sat at my desk and made a report of my talk with Josh Smedley. By the time I had finished it was 13.15, and I was hungry.
    As I was putting my report in the Thorsen file, Bill came in. I could see by his excited expression he had news.
    ‘Let’s eat, Bill,’ I said, getting to my feet.
    ‘Great! I could eat an elephant!’
    Without further talk, we went down to a restaurant that was close by, just around the corner from the Trueman building.
    We ordered breaded lamb chops and french fries: the special for the day. We both had beers. The service was fast. We had scarcely time to settle ourselves when two plates arrived with two enormous lamb chops and a mountain of french fries. The lamb chops were as tender as an old man’s leg, but we were hungry, so we chewed.
    ‘What’s new, Bill?’ I asked as I sawed at my meat.
    ‘The Olds is now registered in the name of Hank Smedley. Transferred to him some three months ago. How do you like that?’
    ‘I like it,’ I said and ate some of the crisp potatoes.
    ‘And. . .?’
    ‘Plenty,’ Bill said. ‘I got Hank’s address, 56 Seagrove Road, Seacombe. I went along and look a look. Hank has a pad on the top floor. The place is nice and with style. I then went along to the cop house and talked to Tom Lepski. I told him we were interested in Hank Smedley. As he had nothing to do, he gave out. The cops know all about Hank. Lepski dug out his file. Hank’s been in trouble since the age of twelve. D.J. Three times in a reform. Stealing, violence, beating up kids: a real hellion. Then suddenly he appears to have turned respectable. For the past year, the cops have nothing on him. He runs this disco. Every so often Lepski walks in, but it’s all respectable. Yet Lepski said he has a hunch that something is going on there, but he doesn’t know what. He itches to raid the place, but can’t get a search warrant. That’s about it, Dirk.’
    ‘Nice work,’ I said.
    As we chewed I told him what I had learned from Josh Smedley, which didn’t seem to add up to much, but left a doubt or two, a whiff of a scent we would have to pick up somewhere.
    While Bill was thumping out his report, I read through every word in the Thorsen file.
    The time now was 16.15. I wondered if Mrs. Thorsen was back home. No harm in trying, I thought, and taking it slow, I drove to the Thorsens’ residence.
    The humid drizzle had stopped and the sun had come out. I was in luck. As I walked up the drive, leaving my car parked outside the villa’s gates, I saw her drinking tea, under the shelter of a garden awning.
    As I approached she regarded me with a cold, haughty stare.
    ‘I was under the impression, Mr. Wallace, that I told you to telephone before you came here.’
    ‘I did. You were out. So here I am.’
    There was a chair near hers so I sat down.
    ‘Well?’ She put down her half-finished cup of tea and continued to stare at me.
    ‘I have been instructed by my people to report progress to you and ask if you wish the