1971 - Want to Stay Alive

by James Hadley Chase

  A little after 11.30 he saw Walton Walbeck come into the lobby. He had seen him many times in the Fifty Club and immediately recognised him. He watched Walbeck head for telephone booth A. There was a girl using the telephone and Walbeck waited, looking around nervously, dabbing at his high temples with a silk handkerchief.

  The girl finally finished her conversation and leaving the booth, she walked quickly away. Walbeck stepped into the booth and shut the glass door. His back concealed what he was doing. After a few moments, he came out, looked furtively from right to left, then hurried towards the exit.

  Poke looked around the crowded lobby. He was tempted to go to the booth to see if the money was there, but he resisted the temptation. He was already taking a dangerous risk being here.

  Had Walbeck told the police? Had they told him to carry out the instructions and were now waiting for someone to collect the money?

  Again Poke looked around. He couldn’t see anyone who looked like a cop, but that meant nothing. If Walbeck had told the police, the cops would keep out of sight but somewhere they would be watching the telephone booth, waiting to pounce.

  He continued to read the newspaper. From time to time, people used booth A. The money - if it was there - would be strapped to the bottom of the coin box and who would be likely to find it if they weren’t actually looking for it?

  Finally, he got to his feet and walked casually to the exit where the buses waited to take passengers to the City.

  He paused at the exit as if he had remembered something, then walked over to a telephone booth on the opposite side of the one used by Walbeck and shut himself in.

  ***

  Chuck looked at his watch. The time was 11.45. He was sitting on the bed, smoking: a small pile of dead cigarette butts lay between his feet.

  Meg sat on a chair by the window, watching the activity going on below.

  She knew Chuck was waiting for something but she now had learned not to ask questions.

  The sound of the telephone bell made them both start. Chuck snatched up the receiver.

  “Chuck?”

  He recognised Poke’s voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “Airport . . . booth A,” Poke said and hung up.

  Chuck replaced the receiver. A surge of excitement ran through him. He knew Poke wouldn’t have telephoned unless he was sure the money was there . . . so it was working!

  “You’re going out,” Chuck said staring at Meg. “Now listen carefully. Take the bus to the airport. You know where the bus station is?”

  She nodded dumbly.

  “When you get to the airport you go into the main lobby. On the right as you go in there’s a row of telephone booths. Each booth is lettered: A.B.C. and so on. Go to booth A. Now listen carefully: dial this number.” He gave her a scrap of paper. “That’s the number of the Tourist Information centre in the City. You want to know where there’s free bathing.”

  Meg listened, her eyes growing wide.

  “You’ve got to have a reason for using the booth.” Chuck went on. “A cop might want to know. He might want to know why you’re at the airport. Tell him you’re on vacation and you thought it would be fun to take a look at the place . . . tell him you like airports.” He studied her. “No cop is going to ask you anything, but you have to have a story ready if you’re unlucky. Do you get it?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, now listen . . . while you’re dialling the number, feel under the coin box. Fastened to it by tape will be an envelope. Put the envelope in your bag. Don’t let anyone see you do it. Understand?”

  She licked her lips.

  “Why don’t you do it? Why me?” she asked huskily.

  Chuck stared at her.

  “Am I going to have trouble with you?”

  She flinched.

  “No . . . I’ll do it.”

  “Fine. When you get the envelope you come right back here. Poke will be watching. Remember that.”

  She looked at him, her expression wooden.

  “Who’s Poke?”

  He grinned, then nodded.

  “You’re learning but remember you’ll be watched. Now get going.”

  She picked up her shabby handbag and left the room. He listened to the sound of her footfalls on the wooden stairs, then when he was sure she had gone, he ran down the stairs, nodded to the fat Indian sitting behind the desk and went out into the sunshine.

  Moving swiftly through the crowd, he approached the bus station. When it was in sight, he paused behind a banana stall. He could see Meg with a small group of waiting people, then when the bus arrived, he watched her get in.

  As soon as the bus left, he ran along the waterfront and to the parked Buick. Taking the side streets and driving fast, he arrived at the airport ten minutes ahead of the bus. He entered the airport lobby and looked around for a place where he could watch the row of telephone booths and yet be out of sight.

  As he took up a position by a news stall, he saw Meg come hurrying in. He watched her as she walked to booth A and he nodded to himself.

  No panic . . . no sign of fear.

  He watched her step into the booth and close the door. Then the muscles in his stomach turned into a hard knot. Suddenly from nowhere two detectives appeared. Although in plain clothes, there was no mistaking them: big men, clean, smart, broad shouldered and purposeful. They cut through the crowd, moving towards the line of telephone booths and Chuck felt a trickle of sweat run down his face.

  Would Meg give him away? That was his first thought. He’d better get the hell out of here and out of town! He was so scared he couldn’t move, but just stood watching.

  The detectives shifted away from the row of booths and pulled up in front of a young Seminole Indian who had just come into the lobby.

  Chuck flicked sweat off his chin and drew in a long slow breath. He watched the Indian going with the detectives, protesting and waving his hands while people stared. The detectives herded the Indian into a corner and began shooting questions at him.

  Chuck was in time to see Meg leave the telephone booth and walk towards the exit. She hadn’t seen what had been going on, but she was walking a little too quickly to be casual.

  Again Chuck felt a stab of fear.

  If one of the cops saw her and wondered why she was almost running!

  But Chuck needn’t have worried. The two detectives were too occupied in questioning the Indian.

  Walking stiff legged, Chuck left the airport. He was in time to see Meg getting into a bus, then he hurried to where he had parked the Buick.

  There were only five people in Meg’s bus. She paid the fare, then walked to the far end of the bus where she was on her own. The bus driver had looked curiously at her. She knew she must look awful. Cold chills crawled up and down her spine, and as soon as she sat down, she began to shiver.

  She hoped none of the other passengers had noticed the state she was in.

  She sat for some minutes trying to control the shivering, then as the bus began to rattle onto the highway and she saw no one was turning to look at her, she began to relax a little.

  She waited until the bus got caught up in the heavy traffic, then she opened her bag. She took from it the manila envelope she had found, taped under the coin box. She looked at it, turned it over, hesitated, then because she had to know, she took a nail file from her bag and with it, slit the envelope open.

  She took from the envelope five one hundred dollar bills. The sight of all this money made her cringe with fear, then she found the note from the Executioner. Terror replaced fear. Saliva rushed into her mouth. For an awful moment she thought she was about to throw up, but somehow she managed to control the spasm. She read the note again, aware her body was oozing cold sweat.

  So now she knew! So now what she had suspected had become a reality!

  The Executioner!

  Poke!

  How many people had he killed? Her mind flinched as she tried to remember. But did it matter how many? One was en
ough!

  With shaking hands she put the money and the note back into the envelope and the envelope back into the bag.

  And Chuck was mixed up with this awful Indian . . . and she was too!

  She stared through the dusty window, seeing the palm trees, the beaches and the bathers while her mind remained paralysed with terror.

  Then she forced herself to think.

  Poke was frightening people into paying him money and using her to collect the money! The police could have been waiting for her! They could have arrested her as she took the envelope from under the coin box!

  Murder!

  No! Chuck wasn’t worth her getting mixed up with murder! Her mind darted here and there. What should she do? Again saliva rushed into her mouth: again she had to fight off throwing up.

  Go to the police?

  She shivered. The police! She imagined herself walking into the cop house and trying to tell them what was going on. Even if they believed her, what would they do? Send her back to her parents? More likely put her in some goddamn home in need of protection! Her mind banged around inside her skull like a pinball.

  She crossed her legs and uncrossed them. She clenched her fists, beat them on her knees, then stopped, looking fearfully down the aisle of the bus. No one turned to stare at her. She wanted to scream at these five people: Help me!

  There was only one thing to do, she told herself, forcing herself into calmness. She must go to Miami right away. From Miami she must travel north as far from Paradise City as she could get. She must get lost: forget Chuck, start all over again.

  Once she had come to this decision, she began to think without panic.

  Okay, she thought, I’ve got that fixed. A couple of miles ahead of her was a Greyhound bus station. She would ask the driver to drop her off. She would take the Greyhound to Miami. From there . . .

  Cold fingers of despair gripped her.

  All her clothes were in that awful room run by that fat Indian! She had nothing. What was she thinking about? How could she get to Miami? She had less than two dollars in her bag!

  For some moments she sat staring out of the window.

  Two dollars? What was the matter with her? She had five hundred dollars!

  Dare she use this money? Wouldn’t it make her an accessory or whatever the cops called it? But to get away! To escape from this nightmare! She would be crazy not to use the money!

  She drew in a long shuddering breath.

  With five hundred dollars she could get to New York. She’d be safe there . . . and she could get work!

  Her shivering ceased and her confidence in herself returned. Furtively, she opened her bag and fingered the five one hundred dollar bills without taking them from the envelope.

  She would do it!

  Her body jerked with a suppressed sob of relief.

  No more Chuck! No more Poke! No more police!

  Determined not to have second thoughts, she closed the bag, got up and walked down the aisle to the driver.

  “Would you please stop at the Greyhound station?” she said, surprised how steady her voice was. “It’s not far, is it?”

  The bus driver was a father of five daughters. They were all nice, good, clean kids: the eldest about this girl’s age, he thought. Well, he was lucky! Thank God, his girls were decent. This girl! He could smell Meg’s stale sweat. He looked at the dirty clothes she had on. Thank God, he wasn’t her father!

  “Yeah . . . about two minutes,” he said looking away from her. “I’ll stop.”

  “Thank you,” Meg said and went back to her seat.

  A few minutes later the bus slid to a stop outside the busy Greyhound bus station.

  Meg was already coming down the aisle as the bus slowed. She forced a smile as she climbed down the three steep steps of the bus.

  “Thank you.”

  “And thank you,” the driver said with heavy sarcasm. He engaged gear and the bus moved on.

  Clutching her handbag, Meg started towards the ticket office.

  “Hi!”

  The sound hit her like a knife thrusts into her heart. She turned, her body suddenly icy cold.

  Chuck was leaning out of the window of the Buick. He was grinning.

  “Do you want a ride, baby?” he asked.

  ***

  Elliot Hansen was considered one of the great bridge players of the world, but the fact he was a blatant homosexual and cared nothing about competition bridge, he was content to be secretary of the Fifty Club.

  On this hot, sunny afternoon, he was behind his desk, regarding Detective Lepski the way you regard a large, hairy spider that has dropped unexpectedly into your bath.

  Elliot Hansen was tall, handsome and impressive to look at. His thick white hair fell to his collar. His perfect dentures, cleaned at least three times a day, gleamed when he smiled. He claimed to be sixty years of age, but if you added seven years you could still be off target. He dealt only with the very rich. He lived in luxury and would drink only “29 or “59 chateau bottled wine. He lived in the small world of luxury in the Club, but was not adverse, even now, to a quick fumble in a toilet with any pretty youth who caught his eye.

  Chief of Police Terrell had decided if anyone could handle Hansen it would be Lepski who was down to earth, no snob, unimpressed by riches and above all, ambitious.

  “Yes?” Hansen asked in his soft, melodious voice. He took a scented silk handkerchief from his cuff and waved it before his elegant nose.

  In his cop voice that made Hansen wince, Lepski explained why he was here.

  Elliot Hansen was English. Many years ago he had been the major domo to a Duke, until the Duke got into trouble with a boy scout. Then when the English police had become tiresome about Hansen’s own activities, he had left the country and had been pleased to accept the position of Secretary to the most exclusive bridge club in Florida.

  Hansen listened to what Lepski was saying, scarcely believing he could be hearing aright.

  “But, my good fellow, that’s most unlikely! One of our servants? No! No! Unthinkable!”

  Lepski hated homosexuals as much as Hansen hated detectives. He moved impatiently.

  “We’re looking for an Indian,” he said. “The description we have is he’s around twenty-three to five years of age, thick black hair, and wears a flowered shirt and dark hipsters. Have you an Indian working here who matches this description?”

  “So young?” Hansen winced. “No . . . no . . . all our Indian servants are elderly. They have worked here for years . . . really years, and as for wearing a flowered shirt.” He threw back his head and laughed. To Lepski the sound he made was like the neighing of a mare.

  “Yeah . . . but look at it from our angle,” Lepski said. “Two of your club members have been killed. A third one has knocked himself off: his girlfriend killed. We’re wondering if there’s a connection between this killer and this club. We know he is a Seminole Indian. You follow me? Maybe one of your staff is gunning for your members.”

  Hansen revealed his dentures in a supercilious smile.

  “I assure you, my dear fellow . . . quite, quite wrong thinking. Our servants have been with us for years . . . but, years. They love us all. You can have no idea. These Indians are very loyal. They really love us.”

  “Couldn’t one of them possibly have a grudge against the club?” Lepski persisted. “Someone who imagines he’s had a bad deal?”

  “A had deal?” Hansen was genuinely shocked. “The staff here are always treated splendidly. We’re just a big, happy family.”

  Lepski breathed heavily through his nose.

  “Did you ever have reason to dismiss one of your staff? Someone, maybe, who didn’t come up to your standard?”

  Hansen was toying with his gold fountain pen. It slipped out of his fingers and rolled across his desk. He gave a little start as if he had a twinge of toothache. This reaction wasn’t lost on Lepski.

  There was a long pause, then Hansen picked up his pen and began to toy with it
again.

  “Well, I suppose . . . in the past . . . yes, that’s possible,” he said slowly and reluctantly.

  His mind went back to the young Indian. How long ago was it . . . four months? Until this moment he had put the incident out of his mind, now the memory came back with frightening clarity. What was his name? Toholo?

  Yes . . . his father had been working in the Club for twenty years. He remembered the old man coming to him and asking if his son could work at the Club. When he had seen him, he had agreed . . . a lovely, beautifully built boy! But what a savage! That moment when he had smiled at him . . .they had been alone in the washroom and when he had touched him.

  Hansen flinched. What a savage! It had been frightening. Of course he had been carried away. The boy had looked so deceptive. He had had to get rid of him. He had been careful to explain to his father that the boy was out of place in the Club . . . too young. The old man had stared at him. Hansen shifted uneasily in his chair. He could still see the contempt in the black eyes.

  But he couldn’t possibly tell this ghastly detective about Toholo. The moment he attempted to explain . . . no! It was impossible!

  “Do you remember any particular Indian you had to get rid of?” Lepski repeated.

  The hard cop voice jarred on Hansen’s nerves.

  “It hasn’t happened in years,” he said. “You know how it is.” He looked at Lepski, then his eyes shifted. “Of course they get old. Then we pension them off.”

  Lepski knew he was onto something.

  “Do you keep a register of your staff?”

  Hansen blinked. He took out his silk handkerchief and touched his temples.

  “Of course.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “But I assure you, you’re wasting your time.”

  Lepski leaned back in his chair. His lean face made Hansen think of a hawk.

  “I got paid to waste time,” he said. “Or don’t you want me to see it?”

  Hansen felt suddenly faint. He drew on his dignity.

  “I must ask you not to be impertinent,” he said, his voice unsteady. “If you want to see the register, you may.”

  Lepski’s cop eyes stared bleakly.