1971 - Want to Stay Alive

by James Hadley Chase

  Hedley absorbed all this, then he asked, “So what’s the next move?”

  Terrell leaned forward, resting his big hands on his desk.

  “Strictly between ourselves, I wish I knew. There is no immediate next move. Of course we will give out we are handling it, making inquiries and so on and so on, but there isn’t much we can do. We’ll keep the photo of the rifle before the public, we will dig into McCuen’s life and talk to his friends, but I don’t think any of this will get us far. An apparently motiveless killing like this one is a real toughie. We’ll have to wait and hope it’s only an isolated killing.”

  Hedley stiffened.

  “Are you suggesting this man could do it again?”

  “Ask yourself. I hope not. We’ll be going through the motions. We’ll check on everyone who has quarrelled with McCuen and there are a lot of them. We’ll try to find out if anyone had a real grudge against him . . . maybe one of his employees. If you have any ideas, Lawson, now’s the time to trot them out.”

  Hedley crushed out his cigar in the ash tray and stood up.

  “No . . . I understand the position. All right, keep trying, Frank. I’ll get back to my office and start pouring oil . . . that’s the least I can do.”

  When he had gone, Terrell finished his coffee, lit his pipe and looked at Beigler.

  “Let’s get moving, Joe . . . the works. Get them all at it. I don’t think they’ll come up with anything, but we’ve got to do something.”

  “Yeah.” Beigler got to his feet. “You think there’ll be another, Chief?”

  “I hope not.”

  “I think there will. We have a nut on our hands.” Beigler shook his head.

  “Lucky Fred. I wouldn’t mind being in hospital with a broken leg right now.”

  “He’ll make a mistake . . . they always do,” Terrell said without much conviction in his voice.

  “But when?”

  “That’s right . . . when.”

  They looked at each other, men Beigler went into the Detectives’ room to get his men working.

  ***

  Aware at this time in the evening his neighbours would be out in their gardens attacking aphis with their D.D.T. guns or cutting their lawns, Lepski decided to stage an entrance drat would set them up on their ears.

  He roared down the avenue in his car at fifty miles an hour, then stood on his brake pedal as he reached his garden gate, bringing the car to a screeching halt and nearly throwing himself through the windshield. If anything, Lepski was a show off, but maybe, he thought as he flung himself out of the car, that sudden stop had been a little too spectacular for safety.

  Slamming the car door, aware his neighbours had suspended all activity and were staring at him with round eyes, he pounded up the garden path to his front door. Stabbing the key into the lock, he decided the scene was going well. Everyone living down the street had by now been told by Lepski’s wife about his promotion. Now was the time to show all these squares a 1st Grade Detective in action.

  Unfortunately he was trying to unlock his front door with his car key. If he could have swept into the house, slamming the door, the impression he had made would have been long discussed, but this frustrated fiddling at the lock until he realised he was using the wrong key spoilt the scene.

  As he groped, swearing, for the right key, the front door jerked open.

  “Do you have to drive like that?” Carroll Lepski asked severely. “Don’t you realise you’re setting a bad example?”

  Lepski barged past her, kicked the door shut and headed for the bathroom.

  “I’m breaking my neck for a pee,” he announced, then slammed the door.

  Carroll sighed. Aged twenty-seven, tall, dark and pretty she had a will of her own. Before marrying Lepski, she had been a clerk in the American Express Company in Miami dealing with the rich, arranging their affairs and advising them. The work had given her a lot of self-confidence and made her somewhat bossy.

  She regarded her husband as the best and smartest detective at headquarters. She planned, in probably six or possibly seven years’ time to see him as Chief of Police. This again she didn’t tell him, but she nagged him from promotion to promotion. He was now 1st Grade: the next move was to be Sergeant.

  Lepski came out of the bathroom, dramatically wiping nonexistent sweat from his face.

  “Let’s have a drink,” he said, throwing himself into a chair. “I’ve only got five minutes . . . just time to change my shirt.”

  “If you’re on duty again, Lepski, you don’t drink! I’ll get you a Coke.”

  “I want a goddamn drink, a big whisky with lots of ice!” She went into the kitchen and brought him a large Coke with lots of ice.

  “What are you so worked up about?” she asked, sitting on the arm of a chair.

  “Me? I’m not worked up! What makes you think I’m worked up?” He drank half the Coke and grimaced. “How about putting a slug of Scotch in this?”

  “No! You look and act like you’re worked up. I’m worked up too. I’ve been glued to the television. This killer . . . The Executioner . . . what’s happening?”

  “A nut. I don’t have to tell you: a nut’s the worst headache we can get. Now listen, Carroll, not a word to anyone! I know all your harpy friends imagine they’ll get first hand news from you, but don’t tell them a thing!”

  “There’s nothing to tell, is there? An idiot child would know this man is a nutter. What’s going on? Have you found him yet?”

  Lepski released a hollow laugh.

  “Not yet. I’ll be out all night making goddam inquiries. Routine stuff. The City’s scared. We have to look busy, but it’s just a waste of time, but don’t tell anyone.”

  “I have a clue, Lepski.” Now Carroll had an admission that her husband was up against a blank wall she was ready to steer him to further promotion. “As soon as I heard Hamilton on TV this morning, I went around to Mehitabel Bessinger. I felt sure if anyone could crack this case it’d be her.”

  Lepski stiffened, then loosened his collar.

  “That old fake? You’re crazy! Now, look, baby, get me a clean shirt. I’ll be out all night. How about cutting me a couple of sandwiches? What have we got in the fridge? Is there any of that beef left?”

  “Listen to me, Lepski,” Carroll said firmly. “Mehitabel may be old, but she isn’t a fake. She has powers. I told her how important this was to you and . . .”

  “Wait a minute!” Lepski sat forward, suspicion on his face. “Did you give her my whisky?” Jumping to his feet, he rushed to the liquor cabinet. His bottle of Cutty Sark was missing. He turned and looked accusingly at his wife. “You gave that drunken old bag my whisky!”

  “Mehitabel is not a drunken old bag! Naturally she likes a drink from time to time. Yes, I gave her the whisky . . . anyway, Lepski, I think you drink too much.”

  Lepski dragged his tie loose.

  “Never mind how much I drink! You mean ...”

  “Be quiet! I want you to listen!” Carroll’s voice rose.

  “Oh, sure, sure.” Lepski ran his fingers through his hair. “You don’t have to tell me.” He took off his tie and began to crumple it in his hands. “You went to her and she got her goddamn crystal ball out and for a bottle of my best whisky, she told you who lulled McCuen . . . right?”

  Carroll squared her shoulders.

  “That’s just what she did. This could be the quick break through. Mehitabel saw the killer in her crystal ball.”

  Lepski made a noise like a pneumatic drill as he threw his tie on the floor and stamped on it.

  “You don’t have to show off,” Carroll said coldly. There are times when I think you have the mentality of a spoilt child.”

  Lepski closed his eyes but finally got control of himself.

  “Yeah . . . you could be right. Fine . . . now let’s forget about Mehitabel. Suppose you cut me some sandwiches? I’d like some of that beef . . . if there’s any left.”

  “You think too much about food,” C
arroll said. “Will you please pay attention? Mehitabel saw this man! He’s an Indian. He was wearing a flowered shirt and there were two other people with him: a man and a woman, but she couldn’t see them clearly.”

  “Is that right?” Lepski sneered. “That doesn’t surprise me. Once that old rum-dum gets her hands on a bottle she can’t see anything clearly.” He got to his feet. “I’m taking a shave and I’m changing my shirt. Will you get those sandwiches ready?”

  Carroll pounded her knees with her fists. There were times - and this was one of them - when she could be as dramatic as Lepski.

  “But can’t you see, you idiot, this is a clue . . . a vital clue?” she said furiously. “Why must you be so narrow minded? I know Mehitabel is old, but she has powers . . . she’s a medium.”

  “Did you call me an idiot?” Lepski said, drawing himself up.

  “Did you hear what I was saying?” Carroll blazed, her eyes flashing.

  “I heard you call me an idiot,” Lepski said. “I’m going to change my shirt. If there’s any beef left, I’d like some sandwiches,” and he stalked off to their bedroom.

  Carroll was waiting with a pack of sandwiches as Lepski, shaved, showered and in a fresh shirt, came out of the bedroom.

  He looked at the pack of sandwiches as Carroll thrust them at him.

  “Beef?”

  “Oh God! Yes!”

  “Mustard?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled.

  “See you sometime, honey. Just forget about that old rum-dum.” He aimed a kiss at her cheek, then stormed down the garden path to his car.

  He was to spend a wasteful night tramping the streets asking questions, visiting nightclubs to which McCuen belonged, but getting a picture, as did the other questioning detectives, that fear was gripping the City: fear like an atomic fall out.

  THREE

  Detective 2nd Grade Max Jacoby was catching the midnight stint. While he guarded the telephone, he was busy classifying the mass of reports on the McCuen murder that were continually coming in, sorting the wheat from the chaff for Terrell’s eyes the first thing the following morning.

  Two young police officers kept him company: smart men but without much experience. The red head was Dusty Lucas: the squat one was Rocky Hamblin. They were yawning over more reports.

  “These guys sure wear out shoe leather,” Dusty observed, reaching for another report. “Imagine: this is my forty-third report and what does it say: nothing!”

  Aware, as their senior, he had to set an example, Jacoby looked up and scowled. “This is police work. The forty-fourth report could give us what we’re looking for.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Both Rookies exclaimed. “Who are you trying to kid, Max?”

  Then the telephone bell rang.

  As Jacoby reached for the receiver, he looked at the fly blown wall clock.

  The time was 22.47.

  “Police headquarters: Jacoby,” he said briskly.

  “I want help here,” a man said. His voice was unsteady but authoritative.

  “The Seagull, Beach Drive. Send someone quickly.”

  “Who is this talking?” Jacoby asked as he scribbled the address on a pad.

  “Malcolm Riddle. I have a dead woman here . . . send someone quickly.”

  Jacoby was familiar with the names of the more important citizens of the city. Malcolm Riddle was the President of the Yacht Club, the Chairman of the Opera House and his wife was considered to be the seventh richest woman in Florida. That made him important.

  “Yes, Mr. Riddle.” Jacoby sat forward in his chair. “An officer will be with you right away.” He was already looking at the electronic chart that told him where the prowl cars were. Can you give me more details?”

  “It’s murder,” Riddle said flatly and broke the connection.

  Within seconds Jacoby was in contact with Patrol Officer Steve Roberts who was covering the area near Beach Drive.

  “Get over to The Seagull, Beach Drive fast, Steve,” he said. “Malcolm Riddle is reporting a murder. I’ll alert Homicide. Just hold everything until they arrive.”

  “Sure,” Roberts said, a startled note in his voice. “I’m on my way.”

  For the next few minutes Jacoby was busy on the phone, watched by the two pop-eyed Rookies. He first called Beigler who was just going to bed.

  Beigler listened and when he heard Malcolm Riddle was involved, he told Jacoby to alert Terrell.

  “Where’s Lepski?” Beigler asked, struggling with a yawn.

  “He should be home by now. He clocked out twenty minutes ago.”

  “Get him down there,” Beigler said and hung up.

  Beigler and Lepski arrived simultaneously at the small luxe bungalow.

  The bungalow was so obviously a love nest that no one looking beyond the discreet flowering shrubs that half screened the little place could have had any other ideas about it. It faced the sea, had a forest of mangrove trees protecting its rear and tall, overgrown flowering shrubs protecting its flanks.

  Roberts’ prowl car was parked under a palm tree. The big, rubbery faced cop came out of the shadows and joined Beigler.

  “I took a look, sarg,” he said, “then left it. You’ll love this . . . it’s the Executioner again.”

  Beigler swore under his breath, then walked up the short path to the open front door. He gestured to Lepski and Roberts to stay where they were.

  He found Malcolm Riddle sitting in a lounging chair in the big living room.

  Riddle was a heavily built man in his late fifties: his sun tanned, fleshy face was handsome enough for him to be mistaken for a film star. There was a look of dead despair on his face that shocked Beigler. He knew Riddle and liked him and knew about his difficulties. He knew Riddle’s wife was a bitch.

  Allowing for the fact that after a riding accident she had now to spend her life in a wheel chair, she still remained a bitch.

  Riddle looked up as Beigler came into the room.

  “Ah, Joe . . . glad it’s you. This is a hell of a mess.” He waved towards a far door. “She’s in there.”

  “Take it easy, Mr. Riddle,” Beigler said gently and went to the door that led into the bedroom. The lights were on. The king sized bed took up most of the floor space.

  The woman lay face down on the bed, naked. Beigler’s practised eyes saw the rope of nylon stocking around her throat, and then his eyes shifted to her long, sun tanned back.

  From the base of her neck to the base of her buttocks was painted in glistening black paint the legend: THE EXECUTIONER

  Beigler stood for a long moment, staring at the body, his face hard and set, then he walked through the sitting room, ignoring Riddle and out into the hot night air.

  “It’s our boy again,” he said to Lepski. “Set it up. Get the squad down here. I’m taking Riddle out of here.”

  Lepski nodded and using the car’s telephone, he called headquarters.

  Beigler returned to the bungalow.

  “The press will be swarming around here any time now,” he said. “Let me take you home, Mr. Riddle.”

  Riddle got heavily to his feet.

  “I don’t want to go home . . . just yet. Of course you want to question me. I’ll take my car . . . you follow me. We’ll go down to Main Bay . . . it’ll be quiet there.”

  Ten minutes later, Riddle parked his car under a palm tree. Main Bay was a day time favourite for beach lovers, but at night, it was always deserted.

  Beigler joined him and the two men sat side by side on the sand. There was a long pause, then Riddle said, “This is a mess, isn’t it? It’s the end of the road for me. Why did that bastard pick on me?” He accepted Beigler’s cigarette and both men lit up. “If I hadn’t had a flat tyre this wouldn’t have happened. It’s fate, I suppose. I’ve always got to the bungalow before Lisa did, but tonight, I had this flat and she was there ahead of me.”

  “Would you fill me in, Mr. Riddle?” Beigler said. “It’ll all have to come out. I’m sorry. I need e
verything you can give me. This nut could kill again.”

  “Yes . . . go ahead . . . ask what you like.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “Lisa Mendoza.” Riddle stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette. “You know about my wife. Of course I should not have done it, but I’m not getting any younger . . . call it a last fling. I ran into Lisa. Something sparked off between us. She was a lovely person and lonely like myself.” His voice became unsteady and he paused. “There it is. I bought the bungalow. It was our love nest . . . that’s what the tabloids will call it, won’t they?”

  “Did you have the bungalow long?”

  “Eighteen months . . . nineteen months . . . something like that. Both of us knew it couldn’t last . . . what does?”

  “How often did you meet?”

  “Every Friday night. It was a fixed thing . . . like this Friday night.”

  “She didn’t live at the bungalow?”

  “Good God, no! We only used it on Friday nights. She has her own home. We chose Friday as my wife always goes to bed early on that night. We entertain on Saturdays and she needs extra rest.”

  “Who knew about this arrangement, Mr. Riddle? I mean apart from you and Miss Mendoza.”

  Riddle looked blankly at him.

  “Knew?”

  “Did you confide in anyone . . . any of your friends?”

  “What an odd question.”

  Beigler restrained his impatience.

  “It’s not so odd. You’re preoccupied with what has happened to you. I’m preoccupied with a killer who has killed twice and could kill again. He knew McCuen’s habits. It looks to me he also knew your habits. Was this association of yours a secret? Did you confide in anyone?”

  Riddle crushed out his cigarette in the sand as he thought.

  “Yes . . . I understand. I’m sorry. I’m being selfish. I see what you’re getting at. Yes, I did confide in a few of my very close friends, but they wouldn’t . . .”

  “I’m not saying they did, but maybe through them there was a leak. Could I know who they are?”

  Riddle rubbed his forehead.