1955 - You've Got It Coming (25 page)

His mind was already becoming active again. He was rid of Glorie now for good, and he hadn't her death on his conscience. He was free to return to Miami. He had his capital intact, and there was Joan, anxiously waiting for him. He'd better get away from here, he told himself. Someone might come and find him, although the danger, he felt, was now past. As he stood up, he remembered the wrench he had thrown away. He had to have that.

If it were found it might be checked for fingerprints and he was sure his prints were on it. He tried to remember where he had thrown it. He recollected flinging it away from him in his fury. He remembered it flying off somewhere towards the wood.

He walked along the edge of the wood, his eyes searching the sandy ground. He hadn't gone more than a dozen paces Wore he came upon, in the sand, the unmistakable impression of the wrench, but the wrench itself wasn't there.

He stared down at the clear cut impression, his heart thudding.

There were three odd little marks by the impression, and it was only when he bent down and placed the back of his hand alongside the marks that he realized they had been made by the knuckles of a hand that had dipped into the sand to pick up the wrench.

It occurred to him then that the killer had murdered Glorie with the wrench, and, in spite of the blazing heat, he turned cold. If the killer had thrown the wrench away and it was later found by the police, it would hook Harry for the killing.

For more than half an hour, he feverishly searched the wood, but he didn't find the wrench, and finally he had to give up looking for it. He tried to assure himself that the killer had hidden the wrench where no one would find it. He must get, this whole thing out of his mind, he told himself. He was now free of Glorie, he had his future to think of. He must get back to Miami and to Joan.

He drove up the road leading from the beach. When he reached the junction, he turned left and on to the main highway. Almost at once he was caught up in a ribbon of traffic, and he felt safer as he drove fast along the road back to Miami.

In his car, at the edge of the road, Borg had been waiting patiently. When he saw Harry's Buick go by, he went after him. He drove about a quarter of a mile behind the fast-moving Buick, content to let two other cars keep between his car and Harry's.

After Harry had driven some miles, he saw an oil truck coming towards him and he recognized the green-and-white markings: it was the truck driven by the man who had asked the way to the Denbridge service station. Harry cursed his bad luck to meet this driver again. He sank low in his seat, hoping the driver wouldn't recognize him, but he did. He blasted his horn and waved out of the window as he went by. Harry ignored him, increasing his speed.

If the police found Glorie's body and the murder got into the papers, the truck driver was certain to remember that he had seen Harry with Glorie, and some three hours later had seen Harry coming back without her. Harry felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his back. That kind of bad luck could put a man into the death cell, he thought.

He reached Miami around half-past four. Pulling up outside a drug store, he left the Buick, went in and put a call through to the Graynor's residence. He was told that Joan was out, but she was expected back after six. He said he would call later and went out on to the street again. Pausing by the car, he considered what his next move should be.

He decided to find cheaper accommodation than the motel he had left. Across the way he spotted a Tourist Information Bureau. He crossed the street and got from the bureau the address of a moderate motel. He drove out to Biscayne Boulevard where he found the motel facing the sea. He rented a cabin in a secluded corner of the well-laid-out grounds and, leaving his car outside, he entered the cabin.

A minute after he had closed the door, Borg appeared. He noted the number of Harry's cabin, then went to the office and rented a cabin near Harry's. He also left his car outside his cabin. He entered and, pulling up a chair to the window, he sat down. From where he sat he could see Harry's front door and from time to time he caught a glimpse of him through the window as Harry moved around the room.

Borg was feeling relaxed and a little tired. The heat and the exertion of the day hadn't agreed with his bulk, but he didn't care. So far it had been a satisfactory day. He had killed for the first time in two years. Killing agreed with him. He looked across at Harry's cabin. Well, one of them was dead, the other could wait awhile. There was no need to rush it. Once he went back to work for Delaney he wouldn't get the chance of another killing.

He took from his hip pocket a flask containing sherbert powder mixed with water. He took a long swig from the flask, wiped his thick lips with the back of his hand and sighed contentedly.

Since he had been a kid playing in the gutters of Chicago, he had had a passion for sherbert: now he drank nothing else. He took another long swig, then, setting his flask on the windowsill, he settled down to wait.

By the time Harry had taken a shower, changed and had a couple of drinks from a bottle of whisky he had telephoned for, it was after six, and he called the Graynor's residence. Joan answered the telephone.

“What news, Harry?” she asked eagerly. “I didn't expect you to call so soon.”

“She's gone. I finally got it fixed.”

“She really has? Where has she gone to?”

“Mexico City. Didn't I tell you? She has a brother there.”

“I'm so glad. Did you have to give her much?”

“Well, no. When it came to the shell out, she'd only take a couple of thousand. I wanted her to have more, but she wouldn't She was pretty nice about it. She even wished us luck.”

“She did?” The incredulous note in Joan's voice warned him to be careful what he said.

“Yes. I guess it was a shock when I told her we had to part. Her immediate reaction was to turn sour, but she soon got over it. She didn't realize you and I plan to get married. As soon as the nickel dropped, she was fine.”

“Thank goodness. I was worrying. Did she go by train?”

Harry moved impatiently.

“Yeah. Look, Joan, never mind about her. When am I going to see you? We've things to talk about.”

“Where are you?”

“In the Biscayne Boulevard motel: cabin 376.”

“I’ll come out now. Wait for me, Harry.”

“What do you think? Of course I’ll wait.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

He replaced the receiver, then, taking the whisky and his glass he went out on to the stoop and sat in a wicker rocking chair, feeling the hot rays of the evening sun on him. From his window, Borg watched him, his little pig's eyes screwed up as the smoke from his cigarette spiralled up past his short, fat nose.

II

B
y the time Joan arrived in a cream-coloured Cadillac convertible, Harry was feeling a little high. He had had four drinks in a row, and his nerves, under the effect of the alcohol, were much more steady.

Joan parked nearby, opened the car door and, with a show of pale blue underwear and long, slim, nylon-clad legs, die slipped out of the car. She waved to him and came over.

“Come on in,” Harry said, getting to his feet. “This isn't such a smart motel as the other one, but it is more reasonable and I've got to save my money now.”

When they got inside and he had closed the door, she said, “I'm so relieved it's over, Harry. I was really worried. I didn't think she'd let you go as easily as this.”

He put his arms around her.

“I told you: we were washed up. She was only throwing her weight around. As soon as I explained we were getting married, she behaved herself. Anyway, let's get her out of our minds.”

She looked up at him.

“I was so sure she would make trouble. She was in love with you, Harry. Are you quite sure you've seen the last of her?”

Harry had to make an effort to meet her eyes.

“Of course I'm sure. Now forget her. We have a lot to talk about. We can go ahead now. That is if you still want to go ahead.”

“Yes, that's all I've been thinking about since last we met.”

He took her chin between his fingers and bent to kiss her. When he felt the movement of her lips against his, his arms tightened around her.

“I'm crazy about you, kid,” he said.

She pushed him back.

“Yes, darling, but we must talk now. Please. There's so much to arrange.”

“We've got all the evening to talk.”

“No, we haven't. I must get back for dinner.”

“That's just too bad,” he said, smiling at her, “because we're not going to talk now.”

He let go of her, turned the key in the lock, then went to the window and reached for the cord of the blind.

Watching him, she saw him suddenly stiffen then he seemed to turn to stone. His right hand remained in midair, his body rigid.

“What's the matter?” she asked sharply, sensing his tension.

He didn't move nor speak.

She joined him at the window, but, before she could look out, he pushed her back with a roughness that startled her.

“Keep out of sight!”

His voice was low and tight.

“Harry! What is it?”

“There's a cop outside!”

He watched the big man through the curtain. He had no doubt that he was a policeman. He had seen too many plainclothes men in Los Angeles not to be able to recognize the breed.

The cop was tall, broad and bulky, wearing a creased brown suit and a slouch hat pulled low over his right eye. His hard, fleshy face, his thin bps and stony, small eyes turned Harry cold with tear.

The cop was looking thoughtfully at Harry's car. He turned his head and eyed the Cadillac convertible parked nearby. Then he rubbed his jaw, frowning. He walked up the steps of the cabin then paused again to look back at the Cadillac.

“What's the matter, Harry?”

Joan's worried voice penetrated Harry's paralysed mind “He is coming here” he said in a cracked whisper.

“What if he is?” Joan sounded impatient. “Does it matter?”

Her matter-of-fact attitude to the situation helped to steady Harry s jangling nerves. If the police had found Glorie's body he thought, they wouldn't send one lone cop to arrest him They would send at least two, if not more. But what did this guy want?

He turned and waved Joan to the bathroom.

“Get in there and keep out of sight. He mustn't see you. If your father got to hear . . .”

“My goodness, yes!” Joan's eyes widened. “He'd never forgive me.” She gave him a puzzled, worried stare. His white, sweating face frightened her. Then she went quickly into the bathroom and shut the door as a heavy rap sounded on the outer door Harry splashed whisky into his glass, gulped it down, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and crossed the room to the door He hesitated for a long moment, then, with his heart hammering and a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, he opened the door The detective was looking away from him, his eyes on Joan's car and for perhaps three or four seconds, Harry waited.

Although he must have known Harry was waiting, the detective continued to stare at the car. Then, finally, he turned his head and Harry got the full blast from his hard, piercing eyes.

“You Griffin?” the cop said, pushing his hat to the back of his head and putting one large, hairy hand on the wall of the cabin and leaning his weight against it.

“That's right.”

“I'm Detective-Sergeant Hammerstock. Mrs. Griffin around?”

Harrys heart lurched. Somehow he managed to crush down the fear that rose inside him and to keep his face expressionless.

“Who?”

The word came out in a husky whisper.

“Your wife,” Hammerstock said, his eyes probing more intently.

Harry saw the danger. He mustn't be caught out in a lie, he told himself. They could easily find out that Glorie wasn't his wife.

“You've got your lines crossed,” he said. “I'm not married.”

Hammerstock rubbed his fleshy nose with the ball of his thumb.

“You are Harry Griffin?”

“Yes.”

“You registered at the Florida motel the night before last?”

“Yes. What's this all about anyway?”

“You had a woman with you. You registered as Mr. and Mrs. Griffin right?”

“Yes, but don't tell me that's police business,” Harry said, forcing his stiff lips into a smile.

Hammerstock cocked his head on one side.

“You mean this woman isn't your wife?”

“That's what I mean.”

“Okay,” Hammerstock said, shifting his position. “Let’s start from the beginning again. Is the woman who isn't your wife but who registered at the Florida motel as your wife around?”

“No, she isn't. Why do you want her?”

Hammerstock looked past Harry and, into the room beyond.

He saw Joan's gloves and handbag on the dressing table and he lifted his heavy eyebrows. Harry looked over his shoulder, saw what Hammerstock was looking at, moved forward, forcing Hammerstock to give ground, and pulled the door shut. He leant against it.

“Sure she isn't?”

“Yes, I'm sure.”

Hammerstock appeared to relax a little. He pushed his hat further to the back of his head, took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

“Could we talk inside, out of the sun?” he said.

“If we've got to talk, we talk right here.”

Hammerstock suddenly grinned. It wasn't a pleasant grin, but it had a certain brutal humour about it.

“Looks like I've called at the wrong time,” he said. “Well, never mind. I won't keep you long. Where can I find your girl.” Harry drew in a slow, deep breath. At least, they hadn't found Glorie's body. That was certain. The relief made him fed a little light headed.

“Why the mystery? What do you want her for?”

Hammerstock's grin widened.

“I've got fifty bucks for her. That'll come as a nice surprise to her, won't it?”

“Fifty bucks?” Harry stared at him. “I don't get it.”

“Look, the redhead who tries to run the office at the Florida happens to be my sister. That's my hard luck, but I won't bore you with my troubles,” Hammerstock said. “It so happens she has a bird brain. When a guy whistles after her, she thinks he's doing it because he happens to be musical: that's how dumb she is. Your girlfriend paid the check when you two left and birdbrain overcharged her fifty bucks. She made a two look like a seven, and your girlfriend didn't query it. Birdbrain only found it out after you'd gone, then she worked herself into a state about it. When she gets into a state, she calls me. I get called four or five times a week, and because I have the bad luck to be her brother, I have to straighten her out. Fifty bucks is quite a piece of money so I thought I'd better do something about it. I called three or four of the cheaper motels, thinking maybe you two had moved to some place that doesn't charge for the air you breathe like the Florida does, and I found you here. I've got fifty bucks for your girlfriend.”