1976 - Do Me a Favour Drop Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘Get the car,’ he said without looking round.

  Leaving my coffee half finished, I got the car from the garage. I had to wait some minutes before he appeared. Carrying a heavy briefcase, he slumped into the passenger’s seat and I drove off.

  After a while, he seemed to relax.

  ‘This is a goddamn fine car!’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you something. A car like this is better than any woman. I’m sweating my guts out to drive her!’

  ‘It won’t be long now, Mr. Marshall.’

  He twisted around to stare at me.

  ‘Skip the mister routine, Keith. I was in a mean mood yesterday. Call me Frank.’

  ‘Why sure, Frank,’ I said, thinking: You’ll soon be dead, you drunken sonofabitch.

  ‘Just remember one thing,’ he went on. ‘Don’t shoot off your mouth to me about money. I know more about money than you’ll ever learn.’

  Somehow I kept my face expressionless.

  ‘Anything you say, Frank, but you did say I could be helpful.’

  ‘I know what I said, but I was drunk.’ He leaned forward and turned on the stereo radio.

  End of the conversation.

  There were a number of commuters getting out of their cars in the station parking lot as I drove up. They all paused to stare enviously at the Caddy and then they waved to Marshall. He ignored them.

  Joe Pinner appeared from the station, carrying a heavy package. He dumped the package and came up fast as Marshall got out of the car.

  ‘Hey, Frank! I’ve been wanting to have a word with you.’

  Ignoring him, Marshall said to me, ‘I’ll be back on the six o’clock. Be here,’ then sidestepping Pinner as if he was the invisible man, he walked into the station.

  Pinner stared after him, his expression shocked and hurt.

  ‘Don’t let it bother you, Joe,’ I said. ‘He has a hell of a hangover.’

  Tugging at his moustache, aware the other commuters were watching, Pinner moved up to me.

  ‘Well, that was kind of rude.’

  Lowering my voice, I said, ‘Strictly between you and me, Joe, he was so drunk last night, Mrs. Marshall got scared and called in Dr. Saunders.’ I knew it would be news all over the town by midday, if not before.

  His eyes popped wide open.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘But say nothing to nobody, Joe.’

  ‘Yeah. Well. . .’

  I nodded to him, then drove from the station. In the driving mirror, I saw he was already talking to a couple of commuters and more of them were converging on him. The word would spread like a forest fire, and that’s what I wanted.

  Beth was making the beds when I got back. She came to the head of the stairs when she heard me enter the hall.

  ‘Do you want breakfast, Keith?’

  ‘Not now. I’ll heat up some coffee.’

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

  I was drinking the coffee when she came into the kitchen.

  She was wearing shapeless slacks and an old, well-worn sweater, but there was still that thing about her that hooked me.

  Staring at her, I was sure if I got her dressed right, got her a new hair style, put her in the hands of people who knew how to make any woman look glamorous, she would be custom made for the wife of a millionaire: me!

  ‘What are you staring at?’ she asked uneasily.

  I smiled at her.

  ‘You . . . imagining you in three months’ time. There’ll be a big change.’

  She shrugged.

  There was a pause, then I said, ‘Show me his will.’

  She went to the bureau, opened a drawer and took out a bundle of papers. She searched through them and finally handed me a single sheet of paper.

  The will couldn’t have been more simple. He left everything to her: the house, his business, his money. There were no bequests. She had it all. His sprawling signature was witnessed by Yule Olson and Maria Lukes, probably Olson’s secretary.

  I looked at Beth.

  ‘He has no relations? No one who would contest this?’

  ‘No.’

  The will was dated three years ago.

  ‘It was my wedding present,’ she told me.

  I re-read the will. It looked watertight. Marshall had begun to drink a year after he had married: that was common knowledge. If he had changed his will secretly since he had begun to drink, she could contest it was drunken irresponsibility and as there was no one to make a claim, she had to win. It looked fine to me. I handed the sheet of paper back to her.

  ‘As soon as his aunt’s will has been proved, Beth, we’ll fix him.’

  She regarded me, her black eyes remote.

  ‘It could take months.’

  ‘It won’t take long to prove the will. Once the will has been proved, he inherits. There will be taxes and duties to take care of, but once the will is proved he becomes the heir and that means he can get any amount of credit while waiting for the estate to be settled. He is already buying the car on credit. Once he has been recognized as the legal heir to a million dollars, we can fix him because you, as his widow, will automatically inherit should he die.’

  She continued to stare at me.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m telling you.’

  She nodded, then put the will among the papers and the papers back in the bureau drawer.

  ‘Once the will is proved, Beth, we kill him.’ I was determined she must realize just what I was planning to do.

  Again the dead pan stare and the remote eyes as she nodded.

  ‘You understand?’ I said.

  She turned away and moved to the door.

  ‘Beth! You understand?’

  She looked over her shoulder, nodded again, then leaving the room, she went up the stairs. After a second or so, I heard her bedroom door close.

  Because Marshall meant nothing to me except money, I was being cold blooded about this, but surely, I thought, he must mean something to her. After all, she was his wife . . . she had slept with him.

  But to her, it would seem we were planning nothing more important than drowning a cat. For all I knew, she might have had more feeling for the cat.

  Again the cold dead finger moved up my spine.

  Leaving the house, I wandered uneasily into the garden.

  I told myself that this was my second chance to achieve my ambition. I had to take this chance. I could never get a third one.

  Away from the house, I sat on the grass, feeling the rays of the sun seep into me and I began to think what I would do once the money was mine. I was confident, once I got my hands on it, nothing and nobody could stop me from going to the top.

  I lit a cigarette, then lying back on the hot grass, I let my mind drift into what could be an exciting future. I was still dreaming when Beth called that lunch was ready.

  While we ate, I began to talk about our future together, but she cut me short. She seemed far away and her black eyes had that remote, cold expression.

  ‘Later,’ she said curtly. ‘I don’t want to talk about it now.’

  So we finished the meal in silence. As she began stacking the dishes, she said she was going to make jam, and if I had nothing to do, the lawn wanted cutting: her way of telling me she wanted to be alone.

  The power mower was in the garage. I had left the Caddy out under the trees. I went to the garage by the kitchen door that led down a short passage to the garage. I paused to look at the lock on the garage door. The screws were rusty: a good solid kick would bust the lock.

  The set-up was that you drove into the garage, pulled down the swing door and locked it. Then you unlocked the door leading to the kitchen and locked it from the other side. My first thought was to buy a bolt so the door into the kitchen was secure, but I quickly realized a new bolt would raise suspicions.

  The door itself was sound and solid. Then I walked into the garage and looked at the lock on the swing down door. This looked fragile.

  I dragged the power mowe
r out on to the lawn and after a struggle, got it going. As I tramped up and down the big lawn, my mind was busy. Finally, I decided two wooden wedges would be the answer.

  I finished cutting the lawn by 16.00 and then went up to my room. I showered and put on a clean shirt. The smell of raspberries cooking filled the house. I could hear Beth’s transistor playing classical music. Going down to the kitchen, I found her fixing caps on a dozen or so jars.

  ‘You’ve made enough jam to stock a store,’ I said.

  ‘I like doing it.’ She didn’t look at me. She began cleaning the big copper pan in which she had made the jam.

  Her remoteness began to worry me.

  ‘Is something wrong, Beth?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No . . . it’s just that I’m used to being on my own.’

  ‘But you are not on your own . . . you have me.’

  She went on scrubbing the pan.

  ‘Are you telling me I’m in the way?’ I said sharply.

  ‘It’ll be different when I get away from this house.’

  ‘You bet it will be different.’

  I moved up to her and kissed the back of her neck. She shivered and jerked away from me.

  ‘Do find something to do,’ she said, an edge to her voice. ‘I’m busy.’

  I struggled to keep my hands off her. After a long moment while I stared at her long, beautiful back, I went out, feeling thoroughly frustrated, got in the Caddy and drove down to Wicksteed. I was half an hour too early for the 18.00 Frisco express so I bought a newspaper, sat in the car and tried to interest myself in the news, but I kept thinking of her.

  As a woman in bed, she was the best ever, but I began to wonder about marrying her. I was sure she was a screwball, and she was also a loner, but if I didn’t marry her, I wouldn’t get the money. I began to realize I could have a problem on my hands.

  I was so preoccupied with my thoughts I didn’t hear the train arrive, but the noise made by the commuters as they got in their cars alerted me.

  Marshall, carrying his briefcase, was coming down the slope towards me. I started the motor and drove up to him.

  He looked sober and pleased with himself as he got in beside me.

  ‘Did you have a good day, Frank?’ I asked as I drove out of the parking lot.

  ‘Yeah. And you . . . what did you do?’

  ‘I cut the lawn.’

  He gave his bellowing laugh.

  ‘That’s Beth’s favourite job. What did she do?’

  ‘Made raspberry jam.’

  ‘That’s her. Who the hell wants jam?’ He shoved his hat to the back of his head. ‘Stop off at Olson’s office. I want a word with him.’

  I parked outside Olson’s office block and Marshall, carrying his briefcase, went in. I lit a cigarette and waited.

  It was a good half hour before Marshall joined me. As he dropped into the passenger’s seat, he gave a chortling laugh.

  ‘That’s fixed the old jerk,’ he said. ‘I’ve taken my business, including my aunt’s will, out of his hands. My man in Frisco will handle everything from now on. He’s a real live wire. Olson doesn’t know what action means.’

  Alert, I said, ‘He’s a horse and buggy lawyer.’

  ‘You’re damn right. Harry Bernstein is the best.’

  I registered the name.

  ‘Tomorrow, Keith, I want you to drive me to Frisco. I’ve got a lot cooking. We could be there three or four days and I’ll want you to drive me around.’

  ‘Anything you say, Frank.’

  He patted my knee.

  ‘We could have a little night fun, huh? Have you any liquor on board?’

  I opened the glove compartment and handed him the bottle of Scotch. He was still sucking at the bottle when I drove up to the house.

  He screwed on the bottle cap and handed the bottle to me.

  ‘You know my trouble, Keith?’ He grinned owlishly. ‘I drink too much.’

  I put the half empty bottle back into the glove compartment.

  I wasn’t going to tell him I hoped he would drink himself to death.

  ‘But you can take it, Frank.’

  That seemed to please him. He laughed.

  ‘You’re right. I can drink any guy under any table.’

  He heaved himself out of the car and went into the house. I put the Caddy away, then went up to my room.

  I remained up there, lying on the bed, until Beth called up that dinner was ready.

  The following morning, we left for Frisco. Marshall sat in the back of the car. He said he had reading to do. So we did the trip in silence. When we approached the city, he put his papers away and directed me to the Raven motel which was a couple of blocks from the Civic Centre. He booked in while I stood around, then we walked to the two cabins and he told me to take it easy as he had telephone calls to make, so I sat in the cabin, watching a Soap Opera on TV.

  Around midday, he came into my cabin and dropped heavily into a chair. He had brought with him a bottle of whisky which he waved at me. I went to the refrigerator, got ice, found glasses and made him a heavy shot. I went light myself.

  ‘Keith . . . you said you once worked with Barton Sharman,’ he said, relaxing after a long pull at his glass. ‘Can you steer me to someone high up who can talk credit?’

  I slopped my drink. If he talked to anyone at Barton Sharman and if he mentioned my name, he would be told fast enough that I had served a jail sentence and Barton Sharman regarded me as all kinds of a leper.

  ‘That was more than six years ago, Frank,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’d choose Merrill Lynch rather than Barton Sharman.’

  ‘You would?’ He finished his drink, blew out his cheeks, then shoved the glass at me for a refill. ‘I want credit, Keith. I thought you having worked with Barton Sharman, could swing something for me.’

  ‘Credit for what?’

  ‘This Charrington steel deal. I want to start buying right now. Do you think Merrill Lynch would give me credit?’

  ‘I don’t know, Frank, but I’ll tell you right away Barton Sharman never give credit. So you still want to go ahead with this steel deal?’

  He accepted the refill, eyed me, drank, emptied his glass and got to his feet.

  ‘Let’s go. I’ve got a busy day ahead.’

  ‘Frank . . . this Charrington steel deal. . .’

  He brushed by me and walked out into the sunshine and got in the Caddy.

  All right, you stupid, drunken sonofabitch, I thought as I slid under the driving wheel, I’ll fix you before you can lose your money.

  We stopped off at Ghirardelli square for lunch. The waiters beamed on Marshall as he swaggered in and they had a corner table for him. We had Cioppino, a cross between a soup and a stew, made of all kinds of seafood. I neither liked nor disliked it, but Marshall had a second helping, washing it down with whisky.

  ‘I’ve got to talk to Harry Bernstein,’ he said as he kept shovelling food into his mouth. ‘You stick around. I’ve got a lot to do. I’m selling out my real estate business.’

  After coffee, he got the check, paid and we went out to the Caddy. He directed me and I was lucky to find parking.

  ‘Stick around. Maybe I’ll be an hour.’

  I watched him, carrying his briefcase walk into a big complex. I turned on the radio and waited, my mind busy.

  Worked right, he just might get credit with Merrill Lynch and if he did, he would buy Charrington steel. The sooner he was dead, the better for Beth and myself.

  While I sat in the Caddy, half listening to the radio, I wondered what Beth was doing.

  If we have to kill him, then we’ll kill him.

  But time was now running out. If he bought those shares . . . !

  Then I saw him with a short, fat man in a blue suit, a panama hat on the back of his head, a flowered tie and a cigar stuck in his mouth. They walked together down the sidewalk and approached the Caddy. I slid out and had the passenger’s door open as they arrived. . .

  ‘This
is Keith Devery, Harry,’ Marshall said. ‘Keith, this is Harry Bernstein.’

  A cold, dry hand gripped mine.

  We looked at each other.

  ‘I’ve heard about you, Devery,’ he said. His voice was soft and husky.

  A fat, flat face with eyes like glass beads, a small thin mouth, a sparrow hawk of a nose. A red light flashed up in my mind: this was a man to be handled with care.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Marshall said. ‘End of the street, second on the right, third on the left.’

  They got in the back and I set the car moving. Following his directions we arrived outside a big complex, ‘Stick around Keith,’ Marshall said and the two men got out and entered the complex.

  I lit a cigarette, turned on the radio and thought about Harry Bernstein. Just under the hour they came out and got in the car.

  ‘Take me back to the motel,’ Marshall said, ‘Then take Harry back to his office.’

  ‘Sure, Frank,’ I said, the perfect chauffeur.

  I decanted Marshall at the motel. He shook hands with Bernstein, then went to his cabin. Bernstein slid into the passenger’s seat by my side and lit a cigar.

  As I started the car, he said, ‘Frank was telling me about you, Devery. So you were with Barton Sharman?’

  ‘That’s right . . . some five years ago.’ The red light began to flash.

  ‘You have to be a smart cookie to work for that outfit.’

  ‘I guess that’s right.’

  ‘Tell me something, Devery.’ He blew rich smelling smoke. ‘I’ve never met Mrs. Marshall . . . you have. What kind of woman is she?’

  If this fat Jew thought I was going to discuss Beth with him, he had another think coming.

  ‘Ask Mr. Marshall,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, but you know Frank’s a smart drunk and he doesn’t talk. She interests me.’

  ‘I may not be smart, Mr. Bernstein and I’m no drunk,’ I said woodenly. ‘Your interest in Mrs. Marshall is no business of mine and that’s the way I like to keep it.’

  ‘That makes you smart,’ Bernstein said and laughed.

  I didn’t say anything. We drove down the street leading to his office and I parked outside his office block. He seemed in no hurry to get out of the car. He twisted around in his seat and regarded me.