Why Pick On ME?

by James Hadley Chase

  “You have the manners of a hog!” she said. “Well, I suppose I must get you something to eat or you won’t come here again.”

  He turned on his side to look at her.

  “Now you are being clever,” he said. “I was hoping you would say that.”

  She reached for the silk wrap that lay on the floor. Watching her in the dim light of the moon, Corridon thought she was very beautiful.

  “I wish this hadn’t happened,” she said, as she slipped on the wrap. “I’m afraid it is going to be very bad for me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it is.”

  She went out of the room.

  While she was away, Corridon turned on the bedside lamp and looked at the time. It was twenty minutes past eleven. He lit a cigarette and frowned up at the ceiling. He knew he should get into touch with Marian Howard and tell her what was being planned for tomorrow night, but he couldn’t be bothered. He didn’t want to think about that now. Lorene had surrendered so completely to him that he now felt tender towards her, recognizing, with a resigned grimace, that he was about to enter one of his sentimental moods. It wouldn’t last, of course, but while it was on him, he was ready to enjoy it. He had forced himself on her for a purpose. He knew women. If she accepted him as a lover, he had an even chance of binding her to him. He had an idea he had succeeded.

  He passed his hands over his muscular shoulders, then swung his legs off the bed and went over to her wardrobe in the quest of something to put on. He found a man’s dressing-gown hanging amongst her things. It was a little tight across the shoulders and rather too short for him, but he decided to wear it. He returned to the bed and sat down, running his fingers through his thick hair and frowning.

  “Slade would be pleased if he saw you,” Lorene said as she came in with a tray. “For goodness’ sake don’t split it. It looks horribly fragile on you.”

  Corridon examined the tray. There were slices of cold chicken, thin bread and butter, peaches out of season and an impressively large cocktail shaker.

  “Not bad,” he said approvingly. “But to have scored a real success you should have cooked me something.”

  “Be quiet!” Lorene said, setting the tray on the bed. “You really are an impossible creature.”

  “Why should this be bad for you?” he asked, helping himself to chicken. “Is there something sinister behind that remark of yours?”

  “You know as well as I do,” she said, not looking at him. She unscrewed the cap of the cocktail shaker and poured two martinis. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

  “Tell me. This is no time to be repressed.”

  “I’ve fallen in love with you,” she said. “I hate being in love. It makes everything so damned complicated. I knew it would happen if we misbehaved. Well, it has.”

  “What’s wrong with falling in love with me?” Corridon asked mildly as he dipped chicken in the salt. “You should be pleased, surely?”

  “You’re not the kind of man any girl should fall in love with. You know that as well as I do. It’s not in you to love anyone. The thing is one-sided, and the woman is bound to get hurt.”

  Corridon didn’t like the turn of the conversation.

  “Women love to exaggerate. Why should you get hurt? I’ll be very nice and kind to you.”

  “I dare say,” she said, handing him a martini, “but you won’t love me, and oddly enough, there is a difference.” She shrugged impatiently. “But never mind. It’s my funeral. Does it amuse you to know I am in love with you?”

  “Aren’t you being a little bitter? The trouble with women is when they have an affair they immediately jump to the conclusion it’s going to be permanent. Why can’t they accept the situation as a man does and be happy for the day instead of moping about tomorrow? Nothing is permanent. In a week’s time you’ll probably find someone much nicer than I am, and you’ll forget all about me. For goodness’ sake don’t dramatize yourself.”

  “And that is what is called leaving the back door open,” she said lightly, and smiled at him. “Very well, nothing is permanent. When you are tired of me, you can retire gracefully. Let’s love for today as tomorrow never comes.”

  Corridon began to skin a peach.

  “I’m sorry you feel like this about it,” he said. “But you must admit you have only yourself to blame. You hung out the hook. It’s not my fault if you swallowed it yourself. If you must be bitter about it, be bitter with your brother. He’s responsible. I take it he wanted to meet me here?”

  “All right,” she said, still smiling. “I admit it. But it was disgraceful of you to force yourself on me like that.”

  “I’m not even going to let you get away with that,” Corridon said firmly. “If you hadn’t encouraged me, I wouldn’t have done it. Who has ever heard of an engine-driver stopping his train before a green light? Now, come, let’s be truthful about it.”

  “You are most ungallant,” she said. “You don’t leave me a shred to hide behind, and I don’t care a bit.”

  “That’s honest, anyway,” Corridon said, got up and wandered into the bathroom. He rinsed the peach juice off his fingers. When he returned she had removed the tray and was lying on the bed, her hands behind her head.

  “Is Diestl to be trusted?” he asked, standing over her.

  She made a little face.

  “I don’t know. I hate him. He’s horrible, and I wish Slade didn’t work for him.”

  Corridon smiled crookedly.

  While in the bathroom he had found in the pocket of the dressing-gown a handkerchief that had Diestl’s initials on it. He decided regretfully his sentimental mood was being wasted.

  IV

  Punctually, the following evening at ten o’clock a black Buick pulled up outside Corridon’s flat. He went down to the front door.

  “Everything is arranged,” Feydak said as he got out of the car. “I have the map. Shall I come in and go over it with you?”

  “Certainly,” Corridon said, and led the way upstairs.

  Feydak looked around the dreary little room, his eyebrows lifting with surprise. Corridon watched him with his jeering smile. Feydak in an immaculate suit looked out of place in the room.

  “Imagine you’re slumming,” Corridon said cheerfully, “then have a superior complex. I won’t apologize for this hole. I have got out of the habit of fripperies. I find luxury flats make one soft.”

  Feydak looked embarrassed.

  “I suppose so,” he said, doubtfully, and sat down. “I hope you had a pleasant evening with Lorene.”

  Corridon pulled up a chair to the table and sat down, facing Feydak.

  “We amused each other. May I see the map?”

  Feydak shot him an inquisitive glance, but the blank expression on Corridon’s face told him nothing. He took out folded sheet of paper and passed it across the table.

  “There should be no difficulty. The flat is on the ground floor, and the front door is out of sight of the main entrance. The porter goes off duty at nine o’clock. If you can open the front door, the rest is simple. The letters are kept in the desk in the sitting-room. That is this room here.” He leaned forward and pointed. “You enter here, turn left, and the sitting-room door is here. The desk stands by the window. It may be locked, but I should imagine it won’t give you any trouble. The letters are in the top right-hand drawer.”

  Corridon studied the map.

  “Are you sure of your facts?”

  Feydak nodded.

  “Yes. The woman has been watched. We got at her maid. She is definite about where the letters are kept.”

  “Not a very safe place,” Corridon said dryly. He was suspicious now. This was a little too easy. He wished he had consulted Ritchie before promising to do the job. There had been difficulties. He hadn’t left Lorene’s apartment until after noon. Huey had been waiting outside and had followed him. Corridon had felt at the time that Huey might have become suspicious if he had telephoned Marian, even if he had use
d a call-box. Now he wished he had. “This woman seems an amateur.”

  “Oh, she is,” Feydak said, smiling. “If this chap wasn’t such an important man there would be nothing to it. He just can’t afford to go to the police. I believe the letters are disgraceful.”

  Corridon tossed the map across the table.

  “Well, it’s simple enough. Suppose the letters aren’t there?”

  “But they will be.”

  “There is always the possibility the woman will have thought of another hiding-place. If they are not in the desk what do I do? Do you want me to search the flat?”

  “I assure you they will be there,” Feydak said. “But if they aren’t, then you had better search for them. You will have plenty of time. We have promised to get them whatever happens. She has gone to a roadhouse in Maidenhead. It is unlikely she’ll return before two in the morning. But we have taken precautions. Diestl has gone out there. He’ll watch her. If she leaves early, he will telephone her flat. Should the phone ring, be sure to answer it. He’ll tell you the minute she leaves.”

  Corridon stood up.

  “You seem to have taken care of the details. Do we go now?”

  “I think so. Are you ready?”

  “I shall be in a moment.”

  Corridon went into his bedroom, opened a drawer and took out a small roll of canvas containing a kit of tools. He dropped it into his pocket, fished out a pair of thin leather gloves and put them on. He eyed the Browning 9mm. automatic pistol lying in the drawer, but decided to leave it where it was.

  He returned to the sitting-room.

  “Let’s go then,” he said.

  On the way downstairs, Feydak said, “I’ll wait outside. If anything suspicious happens I will sound the horn.”

  “That’ll be a comfort,” Corridon said, with his jeering smile. “The only snag to that is there’s no back exit. If a squad of police turn up, I can’t avoid walking into them.”

  “I see no reason why they should turn up,” Feydak said, as he started the engine. He sounded a little irritated.

  “One can always rely on the police to be inconsiderate,” Corridon said. “They turn up in the most unexpected places. If there’s trouble, drive to the end of the road and wait for me.”

  “Of course; but it will be all right.”

  A few minutes fast driving brought them to a quiet street behind the Albert Hall. Feydak slowed down and swung the car to the kerb.

  “That’s the house, opposite,” he said. “Number thirty-seven.” He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “You have plenty of time. I’ll wait here. All right?”

  “Yes. If the letters are where you say they are, I shouldn’t be longer than six or seven minutes. Keep the engine running.”

  “Yes. Well, good luck.”

  Corridon bent and peered at Feydak through the window.

  “I hope Diestl has the money in cash for me,” he said. “I don’t part with the letters until I get paid.”

  Feydak forced a smile. In the glow of the dashboard light his face was the colour of old ivory, and he seemed very tense.

  “There will be no trouble about that,” he said.

  “All right,” Corridon said. “Well, so long.”

  He crossed the road, looked to right and left before mounting the steps leading to the entrance to a well-lighted hall. He entered without hesitation.

  Facing him was an automatic lift, and as he crossed the hall to the corridor on his left, the lift doors swung open and a man in evening dress came out. He looked sharply at Corridon who kept on, moving deliberately and without giving the man a second glance.

  It was bad luck he should have been seen, Corridon thought. If the woman complained to the police, this man would have a description of him. It was unlikely she would complain, but there was just that chance.

  He heard the man run down the steps to the street, and he glanced over his shoulder. Satisfied the man had disappeared he went on down the corridor towards a solid oak front door which, according to the map, led to the flat he was to burgle.

  He took from his pocket a piece of stout celluloid. This he forced against the catch of the lock; a moment’s manipulation was all that was necessary to slide back the catch. He pushed open the door and stepped into a dark little hall. From another pocket he took out a flashlight. He closed the door silently, swung the beam of the flashlight to the left. Before him was a door as the map had indicated. He walked silently to it, listened for a moment with his ear against the panel, then his hand closed round the door-knob. This he turned slowly and gently until it would turn no further. He pressed and edged the door open. Darkness greeted him. He pushed the door wide open and swung the beam of his flashlight round the room. Satisfied it was empty he stepped into the room and closed the door.

  The desk stood by the curtained window. He crossed the room and examined it. The lock looked solid, and he made a little grimace. A jemmy would force it without much trouble, but Corridon prided himself on opening locks without noise or damage. From his kit he took a small pick and inserted it in the lock. For some minutes he worked with the pick, then he withdrew it, took out a small pair of pliers and bent the pick slightly. He inserted it in the lock again, fiddled gently and was rewarded by a soft click as the lock turned.

  He put the pliers and pick back into the canvas holder, dropped it into his pocket and opened the desk. There were nests of drawers on either side of the desk. He opened the top right-hand drawer. It was empty.

  Moving swiftly, he opened the top left-hand drawer. It was full of bits of sealing wax, short lengths of pencils, paper clips and the like, but there were no letters. He examined the other drawers rapidly without finding what he was looking for. The letters were not in the desk!

  He stood still for a moment, frowning. She had either changed the hiding-place or the letters didn’t exist. He had thought all along the job seemed too easy. Was this a trap?

  He went to the window, lifted the curtain and looked into the street. The dark silent street was empty. The Buick had gone.

  A trap then, Corridon thought, and showed his teeth in a mirthless smile. Probably someone waiting for him in the hall. A quick glance out of the window showed him if he could open the window he could get out onto the sill and from there, jump over the spiked railings that guarded the basement. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done. It would be safer than going out into the hall.

  First the door must be locked. But as he took a step to cross the room, the door was thrown open and the room blazed into light.

  A tall, handsome woman in an oyster-coloured wrap stood in the doorway. Her long, dark hair fell to her shoulders and behind her Corridon caught a glimpse of a startled-faced man in a silk dressing-gown.

  “Don’t move!” the woman said, her voice sharp and steady. She raised a small automatic pistol and pointed it at Corridon. “Put your hands up!”

  “Good God!” the man behind her exclaimed. “It’s a burglar! Be careful! These chaps are dangerous.”

  As Corridon raised his hands he gave the woman a crooked smile. He was trying to remember where he had seen the man before. His face was irritatingly familiar.

  “Phone the police, David,” the woman said. “I’ll keep him covered.”

  The man came cautiously into the room. He looked very frightened and white. Corridon recognized him, and felt a prickle ran up his spine. David Lestrange, Permanent Under-Secretary of European Affairs.

  “We can’t have the police here!” Lestrange said, his voice husky. “What are you thinking of? We’d better let him go.”

  “Very wise, Mr. Lestrange,” Corridon said, with his jeering smile. “Think of the scandal.”

  “He should be searched,” the woman said. “He may have taken something.”

  “I’m not going to touch him,” Lestrange said, and wiped his face with his handkerchief. “You – get out of here!” he went on to Corridon, and pointed an unsteady finger at the door.

  “Is that all ri
ght with you?” Corridon asked, looking at the woman. “I should hate to be shot through a misunderstanding.”

  She moved away from him, still keeping him covered by the gun.

  “Consider yourself lucky,” she said. “You can go.”

  But something was wrong. Corridon had a sudden premonition that she was going to shoot. He saw her finger drawing in the slack of the trigger. There was a cold, ferocious expression in her eyes.

  Then he realized what was about to happen, why he was here, and the cleverness of the trap he had walked into. She was about to murder Lestrange and he was to take the blame!

  “Look out!” he shouted, and lunged forward. But the realization had come a fraction of a second too late.

  The woman swung round and fired at Lestrange before Corridon could reach her. Before she could fire a second time, he had grabbed her wrist and smashed the gun out of her hand. He flung her away from him as Lestrange buckled at the knees and spread out on the carpet.

  One brief glance at the small blue hole in the centre of Lestrange’s forehead told Corridon he was dead. He made a dive for the door as the woman began to scream.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I

  As Corridon came out into the main hall he saw Huey standing in the doorway, leading to the street. Huey grinned at him, showing small broken teeth.

  “Stay where you are,” he said in a low, guttural voice. “You’re not getting away.”

  “How wrong you are, Fatty,” Corridon said.

  A swift glance assured him Huey wasn’t armed. He didn’t hesitate, knowing every second was precious. Moving warily he came across the hall towards Huey.

  He knew it would be fatal to grapple with this man who was obviously immensely strong. His only chance of a quick get-away was to put Huey down and out, but as he moved in, Huey lifted his hands. The way he shaped up told Corridon he knew as much about fighting as Corridon did himself.

  Weaving as he came in, Corridon jabbed at Huey’s face with a long, raking left. Huey blocked the punch and counter-punched with surprising speed. Corridon, who hadn’t had a fight in months, saw it coming a shade late, but managed to shoulder up in time to half-smother the blow. It was hard enough to send him off balance. He expected Huey to come in, but he didn’t. He stood his ground, grinning, intent only on preventing Corridon from passing him and reaching the exit.