1971 - Want to Stay Alive

by James Hadley Chase

  “But, Chuck, this isn’t fair! Can’t you see that? I don’t know what I’m walking into!” Meg beat her clenched fists onto her knees. You say I could go to prison for twenty years and you won’t tell me. . . it’s not fair!”

  “Oh, sure, but that’s the proposition.” Chuck got to his feet. “Take it or leave it, baby. Think it over. Poke and I leave in about half an hour. It’s up to you if you come with us.”

  He was sure now he had her on the hook.

  As he moved away, she said, “Chuck . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I don’t trust anyone, including you,” Chuck said. “I never have, but I do know he’s on to a soft touch. I do know he and I are going to make some fast money and that’s all I care about. You have half an hour.” He stared at her. “And remember, baby, once you’re in, you stay in . . . there’s no out . . .understand?” and he walked away.

  Meg sat for a long time staring at the glittering water of the canal. Poke frightened her. She knew he was evil and a little mad. She knew she would lose Chuck if she said no. After all, she told herself finally, if things got too rough she could end her life. Her life was the only thing she really owned.

  The only thing that really and truly belonged to her. Enough pills, a razor blade across her wrists and it would be finished . . . anything was better than to be left here without Chuck and without money and on her own.

  She got to her feet and started back to the derelict house. Chuck had packed his rucksack and was sitting on the top step, a cigarette dangling between his lips. He looked at her, the smoke making his little eyes squint.

  “I’ll pack,” she said. “I’m coming with you.”

  “You’re going to do what you’re told . . . no questions?”

  She nodded.

  Chuck’s grin was suddenly warm and friendly. “Fine. You know something?”

  “What?”

  “I wouldn’t want to have lost you.”

  Meg felt tears rush to her eyes. This was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. The way her thin, white face lit up told Chuck he had said absolutely the right thing. He got up and she ran into his arms. He cupped her small buttocks and pulled her hard against him.

  “Oh, Chuck . . . will it work out?” He could feel her trembling. “I’m scared. That Indian . . . he’s crazy . . . I’m sure he is.”

  “You leave him to me, baby. Go and get packed.”

  Twenty minutes later, Poke Toholo pulled up in front of them in an old Buick convertible. Although a little bartered, its chrome work gleamed. It was an anonymous car: dark blue with a dark blue top and faded red leather seats: a car you wouldn’t notice among the thousands of cars that rolled along Highway 4.

  Seeing Chuck and Meg sitting on the steps, their rucksacks packed told him Chuck had played his cards right. He got out of the car and joined them.

  “Okay?” he said, looking at Meg.

  She nodded, feeling herself shrink inside as she met the black, glittering eyes. He turned to Chuck.

  “Our first stop will be Fulford. You’ll get rid of that beard and get your hair cut. When we reach Paradise City we’re all going to look like three respectable people on vacation. You’ve got to get your clothes washed.”

  Chuck grimaced. He was proud of his long hair and beard.

  “Okay,” he said, shrugging. “Anything you say.”

  Picking up the two rucksacks, he went with Poke to the car.

  For a long moment, Meg sat there, feeling the sun on her face, then as Poke started the engine, she lifted her shoulders in a resigned shrug and joined them.

  TWO

  Detective 1st Grade Tom Lepski stroke into the Detectives’ room at Paradise City’s Police Headquarters like a man ten feet tall. His promotion from 2nd Grade had come through the previous day: a promotion he had been sweating for for the past eighteen months. The news had come in time for him to arrange a celebration. He had bought Carroll, his wife, an orchid, taken her to an expensive restaurant, got a little drunk and completed the evening to his satisfaction: Carroll had put out her best performance since their honeymoon night.

  Lepski, tall, lean with steely blue eyes was an ambitious, shrewd cop whose opinion of himself was slightly higher than his actual achievements.

  Sergeant Joe Beigler, the doyen of the Detectives’ desk, was catching the early morning stint. He leaned back in his chair when he saw Lepski and said with heavy sarcasm, “Now, the City’s safe. Take the chair, Tom. I’ll go feed my face.”

  Always oblivious of sarcasm, Lepski shot his cuffs and moved to Beigler’s desk.

  “Relax, Sarg. I’ll handle anything that comes up. Any news of Fred?”

  Sergeant Fred Hess, Homicide division, was in hospital with a broken leg.

  If he hadn’t been the main stay of the division, the breaking of his leg would have been one of the big laughs at headquarters. Hess had a six-year old son, Fred Hess junior, known in the district as the Monster of Mulberry Avenue where Hess lived. The kid had tossed a kitten, owned by a sour old spinster, up a tree just for the hell of it. Hess, rather than face the spinster and feeling responsible, had climbed the tree to rescue the kitten, watched by admiring neighbours. A bough had broken and Hess had descended to the ground with some violence, breaking his leg. The kitten, of course, had come down on its own steam and Fred Hess junior had stood over his groaning father, grinning his death’s head grin, asking what the fuss was all about. It was only by fleetness of foot that saved him from a clip on the ear, thrown at him by his infuriated father.

  “Fred?” Beigler grinned. “He’s disgracing himself. The nurses are complaining about his language, but he’s mending. He should be up and out in a couple of weeks.”

  “I’ll call him,” Lepski said. “I don’t want him to worry. If he knows I’m handling his job, he’ll relax.”

  Beigler looked alarmed.

  “Don’t do that. We want him back quick. A call like that could harden his arteries.”

  As Beigler left, Lepski looked over at Detective 2nd Grade Max Jacoby who was hiding a grin.

  “Did you hear that?” he demanded. “Do you think Joe’s jealous of me?”

  “Who isn’t, Tom? Even I envy you.”

  “You do?” Lepski was pleased.

  “Yeah . . .” He shrugged. “Well, that’s the way it goes. I guess I must learn to live with it. Anything cooking?”

  “Not a thing. The blotter’s clean.”

  Lepski settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

  “What I want now is a nice juicy murder . . . a sex killing. While Fred is out of the way, this could be my big chance.” He lit a cigarette and stared off into space. “I know Fred’s no fool, but that goes for me too. Now I’ve got my promotion, Carroll’s already nagging me to try for Sergeant. Women are never satisfied.” He sighed, shaking his head. You’re lucky not to be married.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Jacoby said with feeling. “Me for freedom!”

  Lepski scowled at him.

  “Don’t think I’m knocking marriage. There’s a lot to be said for it. A young guy like you should get married. You . . .”

  The telephone bell interrupted him.

  “See?” Lepski smirked. The moment I walk in, there’s action.” He scooped up the receiver. “Police headquarters. Detective 1st Grade Lepski talking.”

  Jacoby hid a grin.

  “Give me Sergeant Beigler,” a male voice barked.

  “Sergeant Beigler is off duty,” Lepski said, frowning. Who was this jerk who thought Beigler a better contact than himself? “What is it?”

  “This is Hartley Danvaz. Is Captain Terrell there?”

  Lepski sat up straight.

  Hartley Danvaz was not only the Ballistic expert for the District Attorney, but he was also the owner of a deluxe gunsmith store that supplied the rich with every conceivable hunting weapon: a man who drew a lot of water in the City as well as being a personal friend o
f Lepski’s Chief.

  “No, Mr. Danvaz, the Chief’s not in yet,” Lepski said, now wishing he hadn’t taken the call. “Anything I can do?”

  “Get someone competent down here fast! I’ve had a break in!” Danvaz snapped. “Tell Captain Terrell I’d like to see him when he comes in.”

  “Sure, Mr. Danvaz. I’ll come myself, Mr. Danvaz,” Lepski said. “Be right with you, Mr. Danvaz,” and he hung up.

  “And that was Mr. Danvaz,” Jacoby said, keeping his face straight.

  “Yeah . . . trouble. Call the Chief. Danvaz has had a break in.” Getting to his feet, Lepski shoved his chair back so violently, it fell over with a crash.

  “Tell him Danvaz is yelling for him and I’m handling it,” and he was gone.

  Hartley Danvaz, tall, pushing fifty-five, thin with a stoop, had the assurance and arrogance of a man worth a million.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded as Lepski was shown into his palatial office. “Where’s Beigler?”

  Lepski was in no mood to be pushed around. Maybe this jerk was a top shot, but Lepski was now 1st Grade.

  “I’m Lepski,” he said in his cop voice. “What’s this about a break in?”

  Danvaz squinted at him.

  “Ah, yes, I’ve heard about you. Is Terrell coming?”

  “He’s been alerted. If it’s only a break in, I can handle it. The Chief’s busy.”

  Danvaz suddenly smiled.

  “Yes. . . of course.” He got to his feet. “Come with me.”

  He led the way through the big store, down some stairs to the stock room.

  “They broke in here.”

  Lepski looked at the small window that had been covered by a steel grille.

  The grille had been torn out and was hanging from its cement foundation.

  “A steel cable, a hook and a car,” Lepski said. He looked through the window into a narrow alley, leading to a parking lot. “An easy job. What did they take?”

  “Was that how it was done?” Danvaz regarded Lepski with more respect.

  “They took one of my best target rifles: a hand built job, complete with a telescopic sight and a silencer, worth five hundred and sixty dollars.”

  “Anything else missing?”

  “A box of one hundred cartridges for the gun.”

  “Where was the gun kept?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Danvaz led the way back to the store.

  “The gun was in this showcase,” he said, coming to rest beside a narrow glass box, resting on the counter. “It was easy to get at. You just lift the glass cover. I haven’t touched it. There could be finger prints.”

  “Yeah. I’ll get the boys down here, Mr. Danvaz and we’ll cover the whole place for prints,” Lepski said, but looking at the highly polished glass case he knew this would be merely routine. The gun had been taken by someone wearing gloves.

  A couple of hours later, Chief of Police Terrell, Beigler and Lepski sat around Terrell’s desk, sipping coffee.

  “No clues, no fingerprints . . . a very professional job,” Beigler said after reading Lepski’s report. “Looks like the guy knew what he was after. There were plenty of other guns he could have taken more expensive than the one he took.”

  Terrell, a heavily built man with iron grey hair, stroked his square jaw.

  “The bulk of Danvaz’s stock covers sporting guns: this is a target rifle. Why pick that?”

  Lepski moved impatiently.

  “A gun with gimmicks: the telescopic sight and the silencer. Maybe some young punk saw it in the window and got itchy fingers. Danvaz said the gun was on display a month ago in the window.”

  Terrell nodded.

  “Could be, but it’s a killer’s gun.”

  “I still think it’s some kid.”

  “If it is, he uses professional methods,” Beigler said.

  “So what? Every goddam kid who watches TV knows to use gloves, knows how to hook a grille off a window,” Lepski snorted.

  “Alert the press. I don’t think it will do any good, but alert them. Get them a photo of the gun . . . Danvaz will certainly have one,” Terrell said.

  As Lepski went to his desk and began using his telephone, Beigler said, “Tom could be right . . . could be some kid who couldn’t resist stealing a gun like that.”

  Terrell thought about this. He remembered when he was a teenager going every Saturday afternoon to the Danvaz store — at that time Hartley Danvaz’s father had been the boss — and staring at a target rifle he yearned to own. He had yearned for it for three weeks, then suddenly the rifle had meant nothing to him. Maybe it could be some kid who had had this kind of yearning and hadn’t waited.

  “I hope he’s right, but I don’t like it. It’s a killer’s weapon.”

  ***

  Dean K. McCuen was the President of the Florida Canning & Glass Corporation, a million dollar concern that supplied packaging to Florida’s fruit growers. McCuen, six feet tall, iron-grey hair with a whisky complexion, was a man who drove himself and his employees and achieved results. He had been married three times: each wife had left him, unable to tolerate his temper, his way of living and his demands.

  McCuen lived by the clock. He rose at 07.00: spent half an hour in his gymnasium in the basement of his opulent house that stood in two acres of flowered gardens, showered at 07.31, breakfasted at 08.00, dictated until 09.00, then left at 09.30 in his Rolls-Royce for his office. This was an exact routine and never varied.

  During the three years Martha Delvine had served him as his secretary she had never known him to be a second late and this bright summer morning as he came down the vast staircase to the breakfast room, she knew it was one second to 08.00 without looking at her watch.

  Martha Delvine, aged thirty-six, tall, dark and without charm, was waiting at the breakfast table, the morning mail in her hand.

  “Good morning, Mr. McCuen,” she said and put the mail on the table.

  McCuen nodded. He was a man who didn’t believe in superfluous words.

  He sat down and spread his napkin as Toko, his Japanese Man Friday, poured coffee and served scrambled eggs and lamb kidneys.

  “Anything in the mail?” McCuen asked after he had munched a kidney.

  “Nothing important,” Martha said. “The usual invitations.” She paused, hesitated, then went on, “There’s one odd thing . . .”

  McCuen speared another kidney, then frowned.

  “Odd? Thing? What do you mean?”

  She put a half sheet of cheap notepaper before him.

  “This was amongst the mail.”

  McCuen took out his bifocals, put them on and peered at the sheet of paper. Written in block letters was the message:

  R. I. P.

  09.03

  THE EXECUTIONER

  “What the hell is this?” McCuen demanded in a grating voice.

  Toko, standing behind McCuen’s chair, grimaced. From the tone of the voice he realised the morning was to begin badly.

  “I don’t know,” Martha said. “I thought you should see it.”

  “Why?” McCuen glared at her. “Can’t you see it’s from some lunatic? Don’t you know better than to bother me with this kind of thing? This is a deliberate attempt to spoil my breakfast!” He flicked the piece of paper off the table onto the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. McCuen.”

  McCuen whirled around in his chair to glare at Toko.

  “This toast is cold! What’s the matter with you all this morning? Get some more!”

  At 09.03, his dictation finished, his temper still smouldering, McCuen stalked out into the sunshine where his Rolls was waiting.

  Brant, his middle aged, long suffering chauffeur, cap under his arm, was waiting by the car door. Martha Delvine came to the top of the imposing flight of steps to see McCuen off.

  “I’ll be back at six. Halliday will be coming. He said about six-thirty, but you know what he is. He can never be punctual . . .”

  Those were th
e last words Dean K. McCuen was to utter. Martha took the horrible memory of the next second with her to her grave. She was standing close to McCuen, looking up at him and she saw his high forehead turn into a spongy mess of blood and brains. A small lump of his brains splashed her face and began to ooze down her cheek. His blood sprayed her white skirt.

  He fell heavily, his briefcase spilling open as it hit the marble steps.

  Paralysed with horror, she watched McCuen’s thick set body rolling down the steps, feeling the awful, slimy thing on her face, then she began to scream.

  ***

  Dr. Lowis, Police Medical Officer, came down the stairs to the hall, where Terrell, Beigler and Lepski waited. Lowis was a short, fat man with a balding head, freckled complexion and a talent Terrell relied on.

  The call had come through as Lepski had finished alerting the press about the stolen gun. The call had been made by Steve Roberts, a prowl car officer who reported hearing screams from McCuen’s residence and had investigated. His report sent Terrell, Beigler and Lepski rushing down the stairs to a Squad car, leaving Jacoby to alert the Homicide division. The report had left Terrell in no doubt that this was a murder: something that hadn’t happened in Paradise City for a long time, and the murder of one of the City’s more influential citizens.

  They had arrived at the same time as the ambulance and Dr. Lowis had arrived five minutes later.

  By now McCuen’s body was on its way to the morgue.

  “How is she?” Terrell asked.

  “Under sedation,” Lowis told him, coming to rest at the foot of the stairs.

  “You don’t talk to her for at least twenty-four hours. She’s half out of her head.”

  Having heard the details and seen McCuen’s body, Terrell could understand that.

  “Any ideas, Doc?”

  “A high powered rifle. I’m going back now to dig out the slug. It’s my bet it was a sophisticated target rifle with a telescopic sight.”

  Terrell and Beigler exchanged glances.

  “How about the angle of fire?”