1976 - Do Me a Favour Drop Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  Do Me a Favour - Drop Dead

  James Hadley Chase

  1976

  CHAPTER ONE

  He joined the Greyhound at Sacramento and settled his bulk on the outside seat, next to mine.

  He looked as if he had stepped straight out of the 19th century with his Mark Twain moustache, his string tie, his grey alpaca suit and his white Stetson. He was around sixty-five years of age and had a belly on him that could have been mistaken in the dark for a garbage can. He wore his hair long, Buffalo Bill style, and his red face signalled an inner contentment and a bonhomie that are rare these days.

  Once he had settled himself, taken a quick look around, he turned his attention to me. As the bus was moving off, he said, ‘Howdy. I’m Joe Pinner of Wicksteed.’

  I was aware that his small brown eyes were taking in my shabby suit that had cost two hundred dollars six years ago and was past its best. The small brown eyes also took in the frayed cuffs of my shirt that was showing grime after the long stint in this bus.

  I said curtly, ‘Keith Devery of New York.’

  He puffed out his fat cheeks, took off his Stetson, wiped his forehead, put on the Stetson, then said in a mild voice, ‘New York? You’ve come a long way. Me . . . I’ve seen New York: not my neck of the woods.’

  ‘Not mine either.’

  The bus jolted us together. His shoulder hit mine. His was all muscle and hard fat. Mine took the shock.

  ‘You know Wicksteed, Mr. Devery?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ I wasn’t interested. I wanted quiet, but I could see I wasn’t going to get it.

  ‘Finest little town on the Pacific coast,’ he told me. ‘Only fifty miles from Frisco. Has the finest little hospital, the most prosperous commercial trading, the best self-service store between L.A. and Frisco, even though I say it who owns it.’ He gave a rumbling laugh. ‘You should stop off, Mr. Devery and take a look.’

  ‘I’m heading for Frisco.’

  ‘Is that right? I know Frisco: not my neck of the woods.’ He took out a well-worn cigar case and offered it. I shook my head.

  ‘For a young, energetic man, Wicksteed offers opportunities.’

  He lit the cigar, puffed rich smelling smoke, then relaxed back in his seat. ‘Would you be looking for a job, Mr. Devery?’

  ‘Right.’ I thought back on the past ten months which had been a series of jobs and what jobs! I was now worth fifty-nine dollars and seven cents. Once that was spent, nothing remained.

  Yes, I was looking for a job . . . any job. I couldn’t get lower than my last job: dish washing in a crummy wayside cafe . . . or couldn’t I?

  Pinner puffed at his cigar.

  ‘You could do worse taking a look at Wicksteed,’ he said. ‘It’s a friendly little town . . . it likes to help people.’

  That last remark made me sore.

  ‘Do you think I need help?’ I asked, a snap in my voice.

  He removed his cigar, eyed it, before saying, ‘I guess everyone at some time in their lives can do with a little help.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’ I half turned to glare at him.

  ‘Well, Mr. Devery, I get the impression you could do with some friendly help,’ he said mildly, ‘but if I’m wrong, excuse me and forget it.’

  I turned away and stared out of the dusty window. Over my shoulder, I growled, ‘I don’t ask favours nor expect them.’

  He didn’t say anything to this and I kept staring out of the window, and after a while I heard him snoring gently. I turned to look at him. He was asleep, his cigar held between two thick fingers, his Stetson pushed down over his eyes.

  It is just on ninety miles from Sacramento to Frisco. I’d be lucky to get there in three and a half hours. I hadn’t had any breakfast and I had a thirst on me that would have slain a camel. I had used up my last cigarette. I was now regretting I had refused his cigar.

  I sat there, watching the scenery, feeling pretty low, wondering if I had made the right decision to leave the Atlantic seaboard for the Pacific seaboard. I reminded myself that I still had a few friends in and around New York, and although they couldn’t help me get a job, if things got really rough, I could have screwed them for a loan. The Pacific seaboard was an unknown quantity and no friends to screw.

  After an hour or so, I saw a sign post that read: Wicksteed 40 miles

  Joe Pinner woke up, yawned, looked past me out of the window and grunted.

  ‘Not long now,’ he said. ‘Do you drive a car, Mr. Devery?’

  ‘Why sure.’

  ‘Would a driving instructor’s job interest you?’

  I frowned at him.

  ‘Driving instructor? You need qualifications for a job like that.’

  ‘Nothing to get excited about in Wicksteed. We are an easygoing lot. You need to be a good driver, have a clean licence and tons of patience . . . that’s about it. My old friend Bert Ryder needs a driving instructor. He owns the Wicksteed Driving-school and his man’s in hospital. It makes it awkward for Bert. He’s never touched a car in his life. He’s strictly a horse and buggy man.’ He relit his cigar, then went on, ‘That’s what I meant about helping people, Mr. Devery. He could help you and you could help him. The job’s nothing big: it pays two hundred, but it’s easy and keeps you out in the open air and two hundred is eating money, ain’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, but maybe he’s found someone by now.’ I tried to conceal my eagerness.

  ‘He hadn’t this morning.’

  ‘I could ask him.’

  ‘You do that.’ Pinner hoisted a holdall that had been resting between his feet on to his knees. He zipped it open and took out a parcel made up with greaseproof paper. ‘My old lady imagines, when I go on a trip, I might forget to eat.’ He gave his rumbling laugh. ‘Will you join me in a sandwich, Mr. Devery?’

  For a moment I was going to refuse, then seeing the white fresh bread, chicken breasts and sliced gherkins, I said, ‘Why thanks, Mr. Pinner.’

  ‘The truth is I had lunch before I got on the bus. It’s more than my life’s worth to take this lot back uneaten. You go ahead, Mr. Devery,’ and he dumped the parcel on my lap.

  I went ahead. My last meal had been a greasy hamburger last night. By the time I had eaten the four sandwiches, we were approaching Wicksteed. It certainly looked a nice town. The main street ran along the Pacific Ocean. There were palm trees and flowering oleander shrubs. The people on the sidewalks looked prosperous. On a distant corner was a big supermarket with Pinner’s Super Bazaar in neon lights on the roof.

  The bus came to a halt.

  ‘That’s my place,’ Pinner said, heaving himself out of his seat. ‘You’ll find Bert Ryder’s school a block further on. Tell him you are a friend of mine, Mr. Devery.’

  We got out of the bus with five or six other people.

  ‘Thanks, Mr. Pinner,’ I said. ‘I appreciate this, and thanks for the sandwiches.’

  ‘You were helping me to get rid of them.’ He laughed.

  ‘There’s a men’s room in the bus station if you want to spruce up. Good luck.’ He shook hands and walked off towards the store.

  Lugging my shabby suitcase, I went to the men’s room, had a wash and a shave and put on my one clean shirt. I stared at myself in the mirror. You don’t spend five years in a tough jail without it showing. My black hair had white streaks in it. My face was gaunt with nightclub pallor. Although I had been out no
w for ten months, I still had that jailbird look.

  I spent a dime on a shoeshine machine, then deciding there was nothing else I could do to make myself more presentable, I set off in search of Ryder’s Driving school. I found it as Pinner had said on the next block: a one-storey building, painted a gay yellow and white with a big sign on the roof. The door stood open and I walked in.

  A girl who looked as if she was just out of school, her hair in pigtails, her round, bright face pretty in the way kids can look before they discover how tough the world really is, stopped her typing and smiled.

  ‘Mr. Ryder in?’

  ‘In there.’ She pointed. ‘Go ahead. He isn’t busy.’

  I put down my suitcase.

  ‘Okay for me to leave this here?’

  ‘I’ll watch it.’ She smiled.

  I tapped on the door, opened it and entered a small office.

  Seated at a desk was a man who reminded me a little of Harry S. Truman. He would be around seventy-five years of age, balding with spectacles. He got to his feet with a wide, friendly smile.

  ‘Come on in,’ he said. ‘I’m Bert Ryder.’

  ‘Keith Devery.’

  ‘Take a pew. What can I do for you, Mr. Devery?’

  I sat down and squeezed my hands between my knees.

  ‘I ran into Joe Pinner on the bus,’ I said. ‘He thought I could help you and you could help me. I understand you’re looking for a driving instructor, Mr. Ryder.’

  He took out a pack of Camels, shook out two cigarettes, rolled one across the desk towards me and lit his, then he passed the lighter to me. While he was doing this, his grey eyes surveyed me quizzingly. That was okay by me. I was used to prospective employers surveying me. I looked straight back at him as I lit the cigarette.

  ‘Joe Pinner, huh?’ He nodded. ‘A great guy for thinking of others. Have you any experience as a driving instructor, Mr. Devery?’

  ‘No, but I am a good driver. I have a clean licence and I have a ton of patience. According to Mr. Pinner those are the only necessary qualifications.’

  Ryder chuckled.

  ‘That’s about correct.’ He reached out a brown, heavily veined hand. ‘May I see your licence?’

  I dug it out of my billfold and gave it to him.

  He studied it for a few moments.

  ‘New York? You’re a long way from home.’

  ‘New York isn’t my home. I just happened to work there.’

  ‘I see you stopped driving for five years, Mr. Devery.’

  ‘That’s right. I couldn’t afford to run a car anymore.’

  He nodded.

  ‘You’re thirty-eight: a fine age. I’d like to be thirty-eight again.’ He pushed the licence back to me. ‘What car did you drive, Mr. Devery?’

  ‘A Thunderbird.’

  ‘A nice car.’ He flicked ash into the glass ashtray. You know, Mr. Devery, I think you could be wasting your talents by taking this job. I like to imagine I’m a good judge of men. What have you been doing with yourself all these years if I may ask?’

  ‘Oh, this and that.’ I shrugged. ‘Call me footloose, Mr. Ryder. I was washing dishes the night before last. A week ago, I was cleaning cars.’

  Again he nodded.

  ‘Would it be impertinent to ask why you received a five-year stretch?’

  I stared at him, then shrugged. I pushed back my chair and stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry to have taken up your time, Mr. Ryder,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think it showed so plainly,’ and I started towards the door.

  ‘Don’t run away,’ Ryder said quietly. ‘It doesn’t show all that plainly but my son got out a couple of years ago and I remember how he looked when he came home. He went inside for eight years: armed robbery.’

  I paused, my hand on the doorknob and stared at him. His face was impassive as he waved me back to the chair.

  ‘Sit down, Mr. Devery. I tried to help him, but he wouldn’t be helped. I believe in helping people who have tripped up, so long as they are frank with me.’

  I returned to the chair and sat down.

  ‘What happened to your son, Mr. Ryder?’

  ‘He’s dead. He hadn’t been out more than three months before he tried to rob a bank. He killed the bank guard and the police killed him.’ Ryder frowned at his cigarette. ‘Well, that’s the way things can happen. I blame myself. I didn’t try hard enough. There are always two sides to a story. I didn’t listen hard enough to his.’

  ‘Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’ His smile was sad. ‘Do you want to tell me your story, Mr. Devery?’

  ‘Only on the condition that you don’t have to believe it.’

  ‘No one has to believe anything he’s told, but there is no harm in listening.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Would you do me a favour, Mr. Devery? Would you turn the key in the lock?’

  Surprised, I got to my feet and locked the door. As I returned to my chair, I saw a bottle of Johnny Walker and two shot glasses had materialized.

  ‘Wouldn’t like Maisie to come in and find us men drinking,’ he said and winked. ‘I like kids to respect their elders.’

  With loving care, he poured two shots, pushed one glass towards me and lifted the other.

  ‘Here’s to the young and innocent.’

  We drank.

  ‘Now, Mr. Devery, you were going to tell me . . .’

  ‘I was what is called a broker’s front man,’ I said. ‘I worked for Barton Sharman, the second biggest brokerage house after Merrill Lynch. I was regarded as a whizz-kid. I was ambitious. I got drafted to Vietnam. They held my job open, but it wasn’t the same when I got back. In Vietnam I met ambitious guys and they taught me how to make a very fast buck in the black market. Making money for other people wasn’t fun anymore. I wanted to make money for myself. A very secret merger came up. I got a whisper of it. It was a chance of a lifetime. I used a client’s money. With my know-how, it was easy. I stood to make three quarters of a million. There was a last minute foul-up. The lid blew off and I drew five years. That’s it. No one got hurt except me. I asked for it and I got it. I’m only good with figures and no one is going to give me a job where there’s cash around so I take what I can find.’

  He refilled our glasses.

  ‘Are you still ambitious, Mr. Devery?’

  ‘There’s no point in being ambitious if you can’t deal with figures,’ I said. ‘No . . . five years in a cell have taught me to lower my sights.’

  ‘Are your parents alive?’

  ‘Long dead . . . killed in an air crash before I went to Vietnam. I’m strictly on my own.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘I was, but she didn’t want to wait five years.’

  He finished his drink, then nodded.

  ‘You can have the job. It pays two hundred. It’s not much for someone like you who has been used to better things, but I don’t expect you to make a career of it. Let’s say it’s a marking time job to better things.’

  ‘Thanks what do I have to do?’

  ‘Teach people to drive. Mostly they are kids. . . nice kids, but every now and then we get middle-aged people . . . nice people. You work from nine to six. We are pretty booked up as Tom is in hospital. Tom Lucas . . . my instructor. He had bad luck . . . got an elderly woman who drove into a truck. She was all right, but Tom got concussion. You have to be alert, Mr. Devery. There are no dual controls, but you share the handbrake. Just keep your fingers on the handbrake and you’ll be fine.’

  I finished my drink. He finished his, then put the bottle and the glasses back in his desk.

  ‘When do I start?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Talk to Maisie. She’ll tell you your appointments. Treat Maisie nice, Mr. Devery. She’s a real nice kid.’

  He took out his billfold and put a hundred dollar bill on the desk.

  ‘Maybe you could use an advance. Then you want somewhere to live. Let me recommend Mrs. Hansen. I expect Joe Pinner told you this is
a great little town for helping people. Mrs. Hansen has just lost her husband. She is a mite hard up. She owns a nice house on Seaview Avenue. She has decided to let a room. She’ll make you comfortable. She charges thirty a week and that includes breakfast and dinner. I’ve seen the room, it’s nice.’

  It seemed ‘nice’ was the operative word in Wicksteed.

  ‘I’ll go along and see her.’ I paused, then went on, ‘And thank you for the job.’

  ‘You’re helping me out, Keith.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You said your name was Keith?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr. Ryder.’

  ‘I’m Bert to everyone in town.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Bert,’ I said and went out to talk to Maisie.

  I woke the following morning at 7.00.

  For the first time in months, I had slept through the night without waking. This was a record for me.

  I stretched, yawned and reached for a cigarette. I looked around the big, airy room.

  Bert had called it nice. To me, living rough for the past ten months, this was an understatement.

  It had a divan bed on which I was lying, two comfortable armchairs, a small dining table with two chairs, a colour TV set and by the big picture window a small desk and chair. Facing me was a wall-to-wall bookcase, crammed with books. There were two wool rugs, one by the divan, the other under the desk.

  The flooring was polished wood blocks. There was a small, vine-covered veranda that looked out on to the beach and the sea. For thirty bucks a week the room was a steal.

  Before calling on Mrs. Hansen, I had gone to Pinner’s Super Bazaar and had bought myself a couple of short-sleeved shirts, two pairs of cotton socks and a pair of sandals. Everyone in Wicksteed seemed to be in vacation gear.

  Mrs. Hansen was a dumpy little woman of around fifty-eight. Her straw-coloured hair and her pale blue eyes were all Danish and she spoke with a slight guttural accent. She said Bert had telephoned about me. I wondered if he had warned her I was an ex-jailbird. I thought not. She took me into a big lounge with French windows looking on to the beach. The room was full of books. She explained that her husband had been the headmaster of the Wicksteed School. He had worked too hard and had had a fatal heart attack. I murmured the correct things.