Have a Nice Night

by James Hadley Chase

  Abe Levi was a thickset Jew with a mop of grey hair and a bushy beard. Life hadn't been easy for him. When young, he had helped his father sell fruit from a barrow. Later, he had married a girl who had slaved in a clothing factory. When his parents died, he had given up the fruit barrow. A friend had got him this rent collecting job. It was a lot better than tramping the streets, pushing a heavy barrow. His wife had died two years ago. There were no children. Abe spent his lonely nights watching television, and once a week, he went to the Jewish club where he was always welcomed.

  As he got into the elevator, he thought sadly of his wife, Hannah. She always had a hot meal waiting for him. This night he would eat a bit of soused fish, but there would be a good serial on TV which he was following.

  Carrying the heavy rent bag, now stuffed with bills and coins, he left the elevator and walked down the long dark passage to his front door. Two of the passage lights were out. This he would have to fix, he thought wearily before he ate. It was his responsibility to keep the high rise in order.

  Reaching his apartment door, he fumbled with his key, unlocked the door and entered his living room. His hand groped for the light switch, pressed it, but he remained in darkness. He groaned to himself. A goddam fuse had blown! That meant a trip down to the basement.

  Abe was a careful man. He was always prepared for an emergency. He kept a powerful flashlight on a small table just inside his living room. As he groped for it, he received a violent shove between his shoulder blades that sent him staggering into the darkness. His thighs hit the arm of his TV chair and he toppled and went sprawling, but even falling so heavily, he held onto the rent bag.

  Pedro Certes, breathing fast, his heart pounding, had been waiting. He had unscrewed a lamp in the passage, put a bit of tin foil around the end of the bulb and re-screwed the lamp, fusing Abe's apartment and the passage lights. He was feeling very confident. Fuentes had said the Jew was without spine, and would faint at the sight of a gun. Pedro had brought with him not only the gun Fuentes had given him, but also a flashlight.

  'Stay still!' he barked, snapping on the flashlight, letting the beam take in the gun in his hand while it lit up Abe, who was struggling to sit up. 'Throw the bag to me!'

  Abe had been rent collecting for a long time. He had never experienced a hold-up. A cop had warned him, 'Abe, there's always a first time. Your people want you to carry a gun. Here's your permit, and here's the gun. I'll show you how to handle it.' And the cop was a good teacher.

  Never believing he would need the gun, Abe told himself that if a hold-up did happen and the thief got away with the rent money, he would not only lose his job, but also his home. His boss had spelt it out: 'Deliver or you're out.' So Abe took the gun talk seriously. He had never fired the gun, but he knew what to do: safety catch off, both hands on the gun and squeeze the trigger.

  'The bag! Hurry!' Pedro snarled out of the darkness.

  By now, Abe was sitting up, clutching the bag and staring at the bright light, seeing nothing of the man shouting at him.

  'Take it,' he said, and pushed the bag in the direction of the voice. The bag, heavy, travelled only a couple of feet across the coarse, worn carpet.

  Pedro stared at the bag, feeling a surge of triumph run through him. Tomorrow, Anita and he would be on a plane, going home. How happy his father would be to see him again! His mind moved like quicksilver. It had been arranged that as soon as he got the money, he would dart up to the first floor where Fuentes had a one room apartment. The Jew, scared witless, would imagine he had rushed out of the building, and when the cops were called, they would be scouring the streets for a man carrying a brown bag. Then another thought dropped into Pedro's mind. Suppose he didn't go to Fuentes' apartment, but ran into the street? Suppose he kept all the money? Forty two hundred dollars! He would have to silence the Jew. A knock on the head! That was it! Then he would walk out, go home, and there was nothing Fuentes could do about it.

  As he moved towards the bag, quivering with excitement, he took his eyes off Abe, sending the beam of his flashlight directly on the bag. Abe's hand crept inside his jacket. His fingers closed over the butt of the gun. He drew the gun as Pedro snatched up the bag.

  Abe's thumb drew back the safety catch, lifted the gun and squeezed the trigger. The flash and the bang in the darkness made both men rear back. Pedro felt a seering hot something across his cheek, then he felt his cheek turn wet. The light of his flashlight centred on Abe who was struggling to his feet. He jerked up his gun, and in panic, squeezed the trigger. Pedro felt the gun jerk in his hand, heard the bang, then with terror, saw a splodge of blood appear in the middle of Abe's forehead, saw Abe jerk and fall back.

  Pedro, stunned by the noise of the two shots, stood motionless, scarcely breathing, knowing he had killed the Jew.

  Into his mind, came the terrifying thought that he had killed a man! You pull a gun trigger and a man dies! Ice cold panic seized him. He thought only of himself. If he was caught, he would spend the rest of his days behind bars, a caged animal! There would be no Anita, no welcoming father, no hot sun on the sugar cane farm.

  He heard voices. Doors slammed open. A woman screamed.

  Fuentes! He must get to him! Snatching up the bag in his left hand, holding the gun in his right hand, aware of blood dripping down his face, he moved out of Abe's apartment, trying to control his panic.

  Fuentes, waiting at his half open door heard the two shots and he cringed. He heard doors opening. He saw a number of the first floor tenants come crowding out onto the upper corridor.

  The goddam fool had screwed up the job! Pray the Lord, he hadn't killed the Jew! He joined the group of people who were staring down the well of the staircase, talking loudly, a woman wailing. He saw Pedro, blood on his face, staring up at him, and he stepped back. Pedro looked up at the frightened faces staring down at him, and he knew this was no way of escape. Still holding the brown leather bag, he ran to the entrance of the street.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Lepski was accepting the big carton which Harry put on the bar.

  'There's the chicken, Tom, plus noodles. Have a lovely meal.'

  Lepski beamed. 'Man! Will this stand Carroll on her ear! Thanks a million.'

  As Marian slid off the stool, he patted her rump. Then he heard pistol shots. Instantly, Lepski became all cop. He was off his stool and darting to the exit. He had his gun in his hand as he reached the street.

  Already the sound of the shots had caused a commotion. Cars with screaming tyres, were pulling up. People were gaping, stopping and staring at the entrance of the high rise.

  At this moment, Pedro came out onto the street. The sight of blood streaming down his face and the gun in his hand made the crowd scatter. Women began to scream, some men dived to the sidewalk.

  Lepski looked across the street and saw Pedro as he began to run. Lepski, moving fast, dodging around the stopped cars, and went after him.

  Pedro heard the hammering sound of pursuing feet. His eyes wide with terror, he glanced around and saw Lepski, weaving through the scattering crowd, after him. He knew instinctively that this man chasing him was a cop. He saw the gun in the man's hand. Half out of his mind with terror, he swivelled around and fired at Lepski.

  A black woman, rushing to a doorway for shelter took Pedro's bullet through her brain.

  Lepski bawled, 'Stop or you're dead!'

  Pedro swerved and began to dart across the street. Holding his gun in both hands, his feet spread apart, Lepski squeezed off a shot.

  Pedro felt the slam of the bullet which pitched him forward. He dropped the worn brown leather bag, and the gun Fuentes had lent him slid out of his hand. He folded down, pain raging through him.

  A patrol car screamed to a halt. Two cops joined Lepski. They approached Pedro cautiously, then one of the cops said, 'The sonofabitch is still alive.'

  Fuentes had rushed back to his apartment, slammed the door shut and rushed to the window. Leaning out, he was in time to
see Lepski shoot Pedro. He saw the brown leather bag, containing forty two hundred dollars, drop by Pedro's fallen body, then he saw his gun lying a yard away.

  The gun!

  Fuentes didn't give a damn about Pedro. He only hoped he was dead. But the gun! He must have been out of his mind to have lent his gun to Pedro! As soon as the cops had checked the gun, it would be traced to him. At one time, he had acted as night watchman on a luxury yacht, and the owner had insisted he have a gun, and had fixed it with the police.

  Fascinated by the gun, Fuentes had wanted to keep it. When the owner of the yacht had sailed for the Bahamas, Fuentes had told him he had accidentally dropped the gun overboard. The owner had shrugged, told him to report the loss to the police and had sailed.

  This Fuentes hadn't done. The gun permit ran for another eight months. By then, with the money Pedro was supposed to steal, Fuentes would have been back in Havana, and to hell with the cops!

  But now . . .

  It would take the cops only a few hours to check out the gun, then they would come after him.

  Sweating, he watched the scene below. More patrol cars arrived. An ambulance, its siren wailing, also arrived.

  Panic stricken, Fuentes turned from the window. He had to get away before the whole high rise was searched! Rushing to his closet, he threw his few clothes into a battered suitcase. Where to go? He thought of Manuel Torres, his best friend. Fuentes often met Manuel Torres on the waterfront. Both of them had lived in the same village, near Havana, gone to the same school, and when young, had worked together on the same sugar cane farm. Fuentes was sure he could rely on Manuel for help.

  Opening his door, he peered into the corridor. His neighbours' backs were turned to him; all were staring down the stairwell. Moving silently, carrying the suitcase, he reached the end of the corridor and the fire door exit. He slid back the bolt, opened the door, then glanced back. No one looked in his direction, their concentration was rooted to the lobby below.

  He closed the door after him, then ran down the staircase. Moving with long, quick strides, using the narrow back alleys, he headed for the waterfront.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Two hours after the murder of Abe Levi, Sergeant Hess, a short, bulky man, in charge of the Homicide Squad, came into Chief of Police Terrell's office.

  'Looks like a straight grab raid, Chief,' he said. 'Two dead. Panic shooting, I guess. So far, we haven't identified the killer. He had no papers on him. We've asked around, but no one is offering information. He's a Cuban. We're still checking him out, but Cubans stick together.'

  Terrell, a large man with sandy hair flecked with white, his heavy featured face ending in a jutting, square jaw, looked what he was: an efficient, tough police chief.

  'This Cuban?'

  'He could survive. Tom got him in the lungs. Right now, he's in the intensive care ward. Larry is sitting by his bedside.'

  'Any lead on the gun?'

  'Checking it out. We should have something any time now.'

  'The Press?'

  Hess grimaced. 'We don't often get two killings in a day, Chief. They are having a ball.'

  'That's to be expected. You've taken the killer's fingerprints?'

  'They're on their way to Washington now.'

  Sergeant Beigler came in.

  'Got a report on the gun, Chief. It belongs to a Cuban, Roberto Fuentes. He has a permit. He lives in the same high rise where Levi was killed. He's not the killer. The photo on his permit doesn't match. Max and a couple of patrolmen are on their way now to pick him up.'

  'This man, Fuentes, could have sold his gun to the killer,' Terrell said, 'or he could be tied to this grab.'

  'That's my thinking, Chief.'

  The telephone bell rang. Beigier answered it. 'Hold it,' he said, then turning to Terrell, he went on, 'Fuentes has skipped. He's taken all his clothes. No one in the high rise knows a thing . . . of course.'

  'I want him,' Terrell said. 'Get it organized, Joe,'

  Beigier, who loved action, nodded. 'You'll have him, Chief.'

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  It was after 02.00 when Anita Certes approached Manuel Torres' fishing vessel. The waterfront, apart from a few night watchmen, was deserted. The watchmen glanced at her as she walked along, keeping in the shadows. They thought she was just another of the many whores who frequented the waterfront, She paused when she located the fishing vessel. There was a light on in the forward cabin. She felt certain, in that cabin, she would find Fuentes.

  It wasn't until Anita had returned home, after cleaning the penthouse suite, that she had turned on her transistor and had heard of the shooting. Before she had left for work in the morning, Pedro had told her when she returned in the evening, to pack. 'We leave for Havana at ten o'clock tomorrow. Be ready.'

  She had put her arms around him and hugged him. 'Dear husband, I wish with all my heart this wasn't going to happen, but you can rely on me for always.'

  She had returned for her afternoon break, but Pedro wasn't there. She had rested her body, but not her mind. She kept thinking of the gun Pedro had shown her. She thought of his friend, Fuentes, who had given him the gun. Pedro had said there would be no risk. She was so in love with him, she forced herself to believe there would be no risk, but she remained fearful.

  Back home yet again at 22.30, hoping with desperate hope to find Pedro waiting for her, the empty little room made her heart sink.

  Pedro had told her to pack, so, wearily, she packed two suitcases to contain their few belongings. As she packed, she thought that tomorrow at this time, they would be back on the small sugar cane farm, and she would once again be slaving in the heat, but what did that matter so long as she had Pedro, her loved one, by her side?

  While waiting for Pedro to return, she switched on the news. She listened to the account of the murders of Abe Levi, a rent collector and Carry Smith, a black woman, the attempt to steal the rent money which Abe Levi had collected, and her body turned to stone.

  The announcer went on, 'Detective Tom Lepski, seeing the thief escaping, shouted a warning, then fired. The thief, a young Cuban, so far has not been identified. Seriously wounded, he is now in hospital, under police guard.'

  Anita put her hands to her mouth, stifling a scream. Pedro!

  'The police want to question a Cuban named Roberto Fuentes who is missing. The murder gun has been traced to him, and it is thought he has either sold or lent the gun to the killer.'

  The announcer went on, 'Anyone knowing this man's whereabouts should call police headquarters.'

  Anita switched the transistor off. Some women have steel in them, some don't. Anita had this steel which was built in her by hard, grinding work in the sugar cane fields and her work at the hotel. Once she had absorbed the shock of knowing her beloved was critically wounded and in the hands of the police, she considered the problem. Soon the police would find out who Pedro was and where he lived. They would come to this room and question her. The Press would hound her. She would lose her job at the hotel. She must act at once!

  Fuentes! He would know the police would be looking for him and he would go into hiding.

  Anita had lived in Seacomb many months. She was part of the Cuban community. She knew Pedro's friends. She knew Fuentes was always talking about his rich friend, Manuel Torres, who had a fishing vessel moored to the West Quay.

  She had heard much about Manuel Torres. It was said he was a man of great influence. He was more than that. The Cuban community regarded him as the godfather of all the Cubans living in the city. When someone had a problem, he went to Manuel who helped him. He was known as 'The Man of Truth'. When he said he could solve a problem, it was solved. Naturally, he charged a few cents for his time, but that was accepted because his advice was always good. When he wasn't fishing, he ran a stall on the quay, selling tourist junk successfully.

  While Fuentes and Pedro had drunk cheap wine, Anita, sitting with them, had listened to Fuentes boasting.

&
nbsp; 'Manuel is my friend,' he had declared to Pedro. 'If ever I got into trouble, I would go to him and he would help me.'

  Manuel Torres, known as The Man of Truth! Anita thought. I will find Fuentes with him.

  For more than an hour, she sat motionless, her mind busy. Pedro must be rescued! Pedro must never serve a long term in prison! This was an unbearable, impossible thought! She well knew the value of friendship. Neither Fuentes nor Manuel would raise a finger to help Pedro unless there was a big incentive.

  At the end of that desperate hour of thinking, she finally arrived at a solution. She hesitated, wondering if such a plan could succeed, then she persuaded herself there was no other way to rescue Pedro, so her plan must succeed.

  She would go to Manuel and Fuentes and tell them of this plan. She felt hopeful that once they grasped what enormous money they would gain, they would help to rescue her husband.

  Now, she stood looking at Manuel's fishing vessel. She saw a shadow move behind the curtain of the lighted forward cabin. She looked around, found a pebble and threw it against the lighted window.

  She waited, then the cabin door opened and the shadowy figure of a giant of a man came on deck.

  'It's me . . . Anita Certes,' she called softly.

  Chapter 3

  Mike Bannion paid off the taxi that had brought him from the Miami airport to the Seaview Hotel. He paused to look at the hotel entrance, and at the balconies ornamented by old-fashioned wrought iron. He decided this was a residential hotel for the retired with not too much money. Mentally shrugging, he walked up the few steps and into the lobby, decorated with dwarf palm trees in tarnished copper pots, and across to the modest reception desk.

  A neatly dressed, elderly man gave him a smile of welcome. 'Mr. Vance is expecting me,' Mike said.

  'Mr. Lucas?'

  'That's me.' Mike's brother had told him to book in as Ted Lucas, and a reservation had been made for him in that name.