1955 - You've Got It Coming (26 page)

“That's pretty nice of you to take all this trouble,” Harry said. “Well, thanks. I’ll take charge of it.”

Hammerstock shook his head.

“I was told to give it to your girlfriend. Birdbrain wants a receipt from her so she can sleep easy tonight.”

“I’ll give you a receipt,” Harry said. “It's my money. I gave her the dough to settle the check so the fifty belongs to me.”

“Fifty bucks is money,” Hammerstock said. “I'd like your girl to confirm the money's yours. Where can I find her?”

“I don't know,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady. “We parted. I don't know where she is right now.”

“Is that right?” The small eyes became inquisitive. “Birdbrain tells me you and the young woman went off in a Buick, heading for Highway 27. Didn't you take her someplace before you parted?”

This was dangerous, Harry thought, aware that his heart was pounding and wondering if Hammerstock could hear it. He couldn't risk a lie. Out of sheer cussedness, this cop might check.

“I took her to Collier City,” he said. “She talked about going to New Orleans.”

“Did she?” Hammerstock scratched the side of his jaw. “That's a funny place to leave anyone. You can't get to New Orleans from Collier City.”

“Can't you? Well, that's nothing to do with me,” Harry said curtly. “She wanted to go to Collier City so I took her there.”

“Yeah. You never know with women: they're funny animals. What did you say her name was?”

“Glorie Dane.”

Hammerstock took out a pack of Lucky Strikes. He flicked one out and offered it to Harry who shook his head. Hammerstock put the cigarette between his thin lips, took out a kitchen match and scratched it alight with his thumbnail.

“Seems you and Miss Dane had a quarrel before you left the Florida,” he said. “Birdbrain had a complaint from a cabin near yours. That right?”

“I don't know,” Harry said, forcing himself to meet the probing eyes. “Could be. I guess we slanged each other often enough. That's why we parted.”

“My wife and I slang each other too, but I haven t been able to get rid of her,” Hammerstock said and grinned. “Well, I've got these fifty bucks. Maybe I'd better give them to you. I can't go out to Collier City. I've got work to do.”

“That's up to you,” Harry said. “I gave her the money so the fifty's mine, but I can't prove it.”

“You'll give me a receipt?”

“Oh, sure, I'll give you a receipt.”

Hammerstock took out his notebook, scribbled on a page, eased the page from the book and handed it to Harry with a stub of pencil. Harry signed the paper and handed it back. Hammerstock handed over five ten-dollar bills.

“Thanks for your trouble,” Harry said. “Maybe I should give your sister something. How about twenty bucks?”

Hammerstock shook his head.

“No, she wouldn't accept it. She's very high-minded, considering how dumb she is. You stick to it: you'll probably need it.”

He looked deliberately at the Cadillac convertible. “That your car?”

“No,” Harry said, opening the cabin door and moving back into the room.

“Nice job,” Hammerstock said. He looked at Harry and grinned. “And it seems you're a fast worker. Off with the old and on with the new, huh?”

“So long and thanks,” Harry said woodenly and shut the door in Hammerstock's face.

III

A
s Hammerstock walked down the asphalt path to where a dusty Lincoln was parked, Harry and Joan stood at the window, looking through the curtain at him. There was a tight, still silence in the cabin and, when the Lincoln had disappeared, Joan moved from Harry's side and wandered over to the dressing table.

Harry was aware of the tension in the room. He felt it wasn't entirely due to Hammerstock's visit. He had a feeling that the tension was also coming from Joan.

Trying to speak casually, he told her briefly why Hammerstock had called.

“I can't understand Glorie letting that dumb redhead make such a mistake,” he said. “Usually, she's pretty smart. I've never known anyone to get the better of her before.”

Joan didn't say anything. She opened her handbag, took out a comb and tidied her hair. Looking sharply at her, Harry was startled to see how pale and set her face was. He was still badly shaken by Hammerstock's visit. He realized he must make an effort to pull himself together. It was obvious to him that Joan was upset by something, and he had to find out what it was.

“Well, he's gone now,” he went on, hoping to ease the tension. “Come here, Joan. Let me tell you how much I love you.”

“I must go home,” Joan said. Her voice sounded flat, and she picked up her gloves and handbag.

“But you can't go yet. You've only just come. You've plenty of time.” He came around the bed to her, but she backed away, her face so tense he stopped abruptly. “What's the matter? What is it? Why are you looking like that?”

She faced him, her eyes large and scared.

“There's something wrong,” she said. “Why did that policeman scare you?”

“Scare me?” He tried to smile, but his mouth felt frozen. “He didn't. He startled me. I was thinking of you. . . .”

“No, Harry, he frightened you.”

Harry rubbed his sweating face, his mind crawling with alarm.

He had to be careful. If she suspected something was really wrong . . .

“Well, okay, maybe he did scare me,” he said and forced himself to smile. “It's not to be wondered at, is it? I didn't want him to find you here with me. Suppose he told your father? Isn't that enough to scare anyone?”

“Why should he tell my father?”

“It's possible, isn't it? Anyway, I was thinking of you. He took me by surprise.”

“I want the truth, Harry!” she said sharply. “Why did you tell him you took Glorie to Collier City after you had told me you had put her on the train to Mexico City?”

Harry felt his smile freeze on his face. As soon as he had closed the outer door, he thought, she must have left the bathroom and listened by the open window to all that had been said.

Think! he told himself savagely. Everything depends now on a convincing lie. Make a mess of this and she'll know something is wrong. Think, you fool!

“Collier City?” He managed somehow to force a laugh. “Well, I had to tell him something, didn't I? I didn't want him to know she had gone to her brother's place.”

Her grey eyes stared at him uncomfortably “Why not?”

“What's the matter, Joan? What's this—a third degree?”

“Why didn't you want him to know she had gone to Mexico City?” she repeated, moving further away from him.

His mind was working now. He had got over his scare. His inventiveness didn't desert him. He sat on the bed and took out his pack of cigarettes.

“It's not my secret, but I know you'll keep it to yourself,” he said. “Sit down, and, for the love of mike, don't look as if I've done something terrible. I assure you I haven't. Relax, kid, and I'll tell you.”

She moved past him to the armchair and sat down. Her face was still tense and her eyes worried and alarmed.

“You remember I told you Glorie was in trouble?” he said. “I told you she was about to kill herself when I ran into her. What I didn't tell you was why she was in trouble. The police were after her. She never told me why they were after her, but only they were after her. I didn't trust that cop. Maybe the fifty-buck story was true. It probably was, but I wasn't going to risk telling him where Glorie had gone. For all I knew he had spotted her description from his sister. By telling him she had gone to Collier City—it was the first town that jumped into my mind— I've put him on the wrong track. For all I know he'll get the Tampa police to look for her. If they do that, they won't be looking for her in Mexico City, will they?”

Joan looked away from him. She fiddled nervously with the clasp of her handbag.

“I see,” she said quietly. “Yes, of course. I understand now. When I heard you tell him she had gone to Collier City it frightened me.”

“But why?” Harry asked, trying to sound casual. He could see he hadn't convinced her and it made him anxious and uneasy.

“Because I still can't believe she would leave you like this,” Joan said. “She loved you. I could see that in her eyes, by the way she looked at you and by the way she talked to me about you. A woman with her character doesn't give up a man she loves so easily. It still worries me.”

“But don't you see,” Harry said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, “it was because she loved me, she didn't want to stand in my way? I made it clear to her that you and I wanted to get married. As soon as she knew how it was she ducked out gracefully. Okay, it was good of her, but there's no need to make a fuss about it. After all, she knew I was through with her.”

“But you said she was being difficult. You said she wanted more money and you would probably have to give her all your capital to get rid of her.”

“I know. I said that,” Harry said, having difficulty in controlling his rising impatience. “She did feel that way about it at first, but she changed her mind. She realized she was in the way. She thought it over and when I said I'd give her what she wanted, she would only take the two thousand.”

Joan huddled down into her chair.

“Aren't you sorry for her, Harry?”

The question took him by surprise.

“Why sure, of course I am, but there's no point in two people spoiling their lives, is there? She'll get over it. I've given her some dough, and she's got her brother to look after her. Let's forget her, Joan.”

“Who is her brother?”

Harry's hands turned into fists. He managed to say quietly, “I have no idea. I didn't ask her. Does it matter?”

“No, I suppose not. Well . . .” She stood up. “I must go now.”

He got up and moved towards her, but she moved more quickly and reached the door. Her obvious reluctance to let him touch her made him anxious and nervy.

“For heaven's sake, Joan . . . haven't we got this thing straightened out?” he said, exasperated.

“Yes, of course. Let's meet tomorrow. There isn't time to talk now. I must get back.”

“All right. I’ll call you around ten o'clock. We've got that agent to see. And how about your father? Do you think I could meet him? I want to get ahead with this business now. There's no point in wasting time.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He moved towards her, but she opened the cabin door and went quickly across to the Cadillac. By the time he reached the door, she was in the car. He paused in the doorway, watching her. She started the engine, lifted her hand in his direction, without looking at him, and drove away.

He remained in the doorway, his face set, his mind busy, then he went back into the cabin again and closed the door. He sat down in the armchair, poured another whisky into his glass and gulped it down.

What was the matter with her? he wondered. His story was convincing. It must have convinced her, and yet to have left like that . . . what was the matter with her?

Abruptly he got to his feet and crossed the room to the mirror on the wall. He stood before it and stared at himself. What he saw in the reflection shocked him and gave him his answer. The gaunt, white, glistening face with its eyes sunk into their sockets, the hard, thin mouth, the skin that seemed to be too tightly stretched over the facial bones wasn't the face he was used to seeing. It was the face of a frightened man with something bad on his conscience.

He cursed softly.

No wonder she had been scared, he thought. He'd have to pull himself together. He couldn't go on looking like this. He ran his tongue over his dry lips. Had he frightened her away for good?

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face, suddenly aware that he was in a cold sweat. He went into the bathroom, stripped off his clothes and got under the cold shower. He remained under it until he was gasping, then he rubbed himself furiously with a hard towel and examined his face again in the bathroom mirror. He looked a little better, but there was still that tight, skull-like look of fear in his face.

What are you frightened of, you fool? he asked himself as he glared into the mirror. They won't find her. They can't do anything to you if they don't find her and how can they possibly find her? No one has been out to that place in months. If they had you would have seen their footprints. No one ever goes there!

Then suddenly his legs went weak and he had to sit abruptly on the edge of the bath. There had been someone there . . . someone who had watched them quarrel, who had sneaked out of the wood and killed her and had sneaked back again, covering his prints as he had gone. He had remained in the wood, watching while he had buried Glorie. This killer knew where Glorie was buried. What was there to stop him telephoning the police from a paybooth and telling them he had seen him burying Glorie?

For a long moment Harry sat rigid. He hadn't thought of this before. He remained motionless, listening to the thud of his heartbeats while he tried to think what he had best do. Then he realized there was only one thing he could do. He would have to go out there, dig up Glorie's body and hide it somewhere else.

Then if the killer did phone the police and they went out to check and didn't find her, they would think it was a hoax.

The thought of going out there and handling Glorie's body sent a cold chill through him, but he knew he would have to do it. There was no other way. His future depended on the police not finding her.

He pulled on his clothes. His hands were shaking so badly that he had trouble in doing up his shirt buttons. He would go out there as soon as it was dusk: in another hour. By the time he got there it would be dark. He would have the place to himself. He would put her body in the car and drive along the coast road until he found a safe place to bury her.

He opened the bathroom door and stepped into the bedroom. Then he came to an abrupt stop. His blood seemed to freeze in his veins, his heart stopped, then raced.

Sitting in the armchair facing him, his black dusty hat at the back of his head, a cigarette smouldering between his thick lips, his fat, dirty hands folded on his gross thighs, was Borg.