Free 1979 - A Can of Worms by James Hadley Chase

had told me he had a bunch of kids who would stay with Jones. It seemed obvious to me that the Indian boy, shot through the head, had been one of Pete’s kids.
    Could be Jones had spotted him, followed him back to Pete’s place and shot them both. I wasn’t satisfied with this thinking, but it would have to do to get on with.
    Anyway, this shooting told me as nothing else could that Jones and Pofferi were as dangerous as Coldwell had said they were.
    The big question mark in my mind was Nancy Hamel.
    How did she come to get mixed up with Pofferi? I had no doubt she was helping him.
    I stubbed out my cigarette and lit another. I was still puzzling, half an hour later, and still getting nowhere, when my front door bell rang.
    I went into the lobby, shot back the bolt and opened the door.
    Lu Coldwell advanced into the lobby, as I stood aside.
    “Saw your light,” he said. “These shootings . . . mean anything to you?”
    “Not a thing. Have a drink?”
    “Why not?” He walked into my living room and sat down and stretched out his long legs. “There was such a goddamn uproar down there, I gave up asking anyone if they had seen Pofferi. I’ll get a couple of my men down there tomorrow when the dust has settled.”
    “My guess is Pofferi has gone, if he was ever here,” I said as I handed him a stiff Scotch.
    “I did ask around before half the cops in the city arrived. No one saw him. Maybe I’ll get the word from Nassau tomorrow.”
    “It’s my bet that’s where he is.”
    Coldwell drank half the Scotch, sighed, then finished the drink.
    “What do you make of this shooting, Bart? I took a look. I’d say it was a professional killing. Two shots: two dead. That’s the way Pofferi kills. I’m wondering if there’s a tie up. What do you think?”
    “More like someone had a grudge against Pete,” I said. “He fixed a number of drug-pushers in his time. Could be a payoff.”
    “Why the boy?”
    I shrugged.
    “A witness, huh?”
    He pulled at his nose and yawned.
    “Well, it’s Lepski’s problem. Pofferi is my problem.”
    I needed information the way a junkie needs a fix.
    “Tell me about Pofferi’s wife? Let me get you another drink.”
    “No, thanks. I’ve still work to do. His wife? Yeah, I’m interested in her too. I’ve wired Washington for a mug shot. I’ll let you see it. Getting around the way you do, you might spot her and you still might spot him.”
    “Have you a file on her?”
    “It’s almost nothing. She called herself Lucia Lambretti before she married Pofferi. The Italian cops have checked out her name, but it’s an alias. She emerged from nowhere about eighteen months ago, and ganged up with Pofferi. The Italian cops caught her when she and Pofferi were trying to rob a bank. He got away. She was held long enough to get her prints and a mug shot, then she escaped. Someone smuggled a gun into her cell and away she went, killing two guards.” He looked at his watch. “I’m off. See you,” and he left.
    There didn’t seem much else to do except go to bed. It was now too late to see Bertha. I ate the beef sandwiches, thought about Pete Lewinski and wondered if Josh Jones had shot him.
    I liked Pete, and I felt depressed, so I gave myself another drink, then went into my bedroom. The bed looked lonely. I wondered if Bertha would come over and share it with me, but decided it was too late. Still, it might be worth a try. I returned to the living room and was reaching for the telephone when there was a gentle ping on the front door bell.
    The time was just after midnight. I walked to the front door, slipped on the chain and opened the door a few inches without showing myself. My highrise had had a couple of muggers causing trouble the previous month, and my neighbour was still in hospital.
    “Who is it?” I asked.
    “I’m Pete’s boy.” The soft accent told me he was an Indian.
    I pushed the door shut, slipped off the chain and opened up.
    A thin boy of around thirteen with a