Knock, Knock! Who's There?

by James Hadley Chase

  “As soon as I’ve got this junk down my throat. It’s a hell of a haul.”

  “I’ll be outside, waiting.” Johnny said and got to his feet. “I’ll get myself a wash.”

  After paying for his coffee, Johnny went into the toilet, washed his face and hands, then went out into the cool crisp air.

  He stood around, watching the big trucks take off and go roaring down the freeway. What a hell of a job! he thought. Then his mind again switched to Massino. He felt a little knot of fear. He knew the organization had never failed to find their man, nor failed to kill him.

  There is always the first time, he told himself and grinned mirthlessly. Who knows? He could make history. The first man to beat the Mafia. With the cold wind fanning his face, he felt confident. Who knows?

  Davis came out of the cafe and Johnny joined him. They went across to an old, beaten-up truck full of empty orange crates.

  “Here she is,” Davis said. “A real hitch! I’ve one more haul, then I get a new one if I’m lucky. Man! Has this old cow done some mileage!”

  He swung himself up into the cab. Johnny went around and got into the passenger’s seat. The cab stank of sweat, oil and gas fumes. The springs of his seat dug into his buttocks. This was going to be one hell of a ride he thought.

  Davis started the motor. As it came to life, there was a grinding noise as if something had come apart in the engine.

  “Don’t worry about the noise,” Davis said, “She’s still got enough guts to get us south.” He rammed in the gear, then drove on to the freeway.

  Johnny felt the vibration of the protesting motor shake him from head to foot. The roar of the motor made conversation impossible. He braced himself, thinking of the miles ahead, but at least now he was moving into safety.

  “An old cow, huh?” Davis shouted and grinned at Johnny.

  Johnny nodded.

  The two men sat silent as the tyres ate up the miles. Trucks and cars roared by them. With sixty miles on the clock, the engine note suddenly changed and the din quieted.

  Davis looked at Johnny and grinned.

  “It takes this far for her to start to behave,” he said. Johnny could now hear him easily. “She hates work, but when she does work, she ain’t all that bad.”

  Then he did something that shocked Johnny. He clenched his fist and slammed it against his forehead. He did this three times: powerful blows that would have stunned most men.

  “Hey! For God’s sake! You’ll hurt yourself!” Johnny exclaimed.

  Davis grinned.

  “Anything is better than the way my head aches. Had this bitch of a headache for months. A couple of bangs sets it right. Forget it, Al, as I forget it.”

  “You suffer from headaches?” Johnny asked.

  “Oh, sure. If you had been in my game, you’d have headaches too.” Davis increased the speed of the truck. “Believe it or not, one time I was heavyweight contender for the crown.” He grinned. “Never made it, but I was sparring partner for Ali at his greatest. Man! Did I have a ball!” He snorted. “All gone now. All I’ve got is a nagging wife and this old truck.”

  Johnny suddenly realized there was something badly wrong with this man: something that made him uneasy. He remembered all the truckers in Reddy’s café hadn’t spoken to Davis or even waved to him.

  “Your head ache now?” he asked.

  “It’s fine. I give the old nut three or four whams and then it behaves itself.”

  Johnny lit a cigarette.

  “Want a smoke?”

  “Not me. Never have, never will. Where are you from, Al?”

  “New York,” Johnny lied. “I’ve never been south… thought I’d take a look.”

  “Sort of travelling light, huh?”

  “My stuff’s coming by train.”

  “Good idea.” A long pause, then Davis said, “Did you see Cooper knock Ali on his pants?”

  “Saw it on the telly.”

  “I was right there. You ever been in London?”

  “No.”

  “Ali took me with the rest of the mob. Some city.” Davis grinned. “Those chicks! Skirts way up beyond their fannies.” He thumped his head again. “You see Frazier beat Ali?”

  “On the telly.”

  “I was right there. He’ll come back… the greatest.”

  Johnny stared through the dusty windshield. They were driving between citrus orchards, either side of the freeway. He looked at his watch. The time was now 07.30.

  “How long to Jacksonville?”

  “Ten hours if this bitch keeps going. You in a hurry?”

  “I’ve all the time in the world.”

  There was a long silence as the truck roared on, then Davis asked, “You married?”

  “Me? No.”

  “I guessed that. You wouldn’t be on a trip like this if you were. You know something? A guy can find a good woman or a bad woman… I guess I had no luck.”

  Johnny didn’t say anything.

  “You’re lucky not to have kids,” Davis went on. “I’ve got a girl. Sex is all she thinks about and her mother doesn’t give a goddamn.” Davis thumped his head so violently Johnny winced. “What can you do? If I took a strap to her, the cops would arrive. There ain’t a thing a father can do if his daughter has the hots.”

  Johnny thought of Melanie. What was happening to her? Had Massino…? He flinched and forced the thought from his mind.

  “Getting hot.” Davis said and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “This is a hell of a haul.” He kept the shuddering truck at seventy miles an hour. They were now out of the farming country and coming to the swamp land. “This I hate,” Davis said. “Snakes, jungle… you watch it. We’ll get by. After a while, we’ll come to the real country… the south!”

  Watching this big man as he crouched over the driving wheel, seeing the glazed expression in his eyes, Johnny knew something bad was about to happen.

  “You’re driving too fast!” he shouted. “Cut it down!”

  “You call this fast?” Davis turned his head to look at Johnny who felt a chill go up his spine. The small eyes with their scar tissue were turning sightless. “The greatest… like me! He’ll come back!”

  “Watch the road!” Johnny shouted. “Joe!”

  Davis grinned stupidly, then took his hands off the steering wheel and began to beat his head. Johnny made a grab at the wheel but he was too late. The truck roared off the freeway and with screaming tyres, it ploughed into the jungle.

  Thrown against the cabin door, Johnny felt the door give and felt himself falling. He landed on his back in a thick flowering bush that broke his fall, then he rolled to the ground.

  He lay stunned, listening to the truck ploughing through the thicket, then came the sound of a grinding crash as the truck hit a tree. As he struggled upright, the gas tank of the truck exploded and the truck went up in a roaring sheet of flame.

  Johnny started towards the blaze, then saw it was hopeless. His sense of self-preservation asserted itself. Within minutes a prowl car would arrive. It would be fatal if the cops found him. They would question him, search him, and the moment they found he had a gun and three hundred ten dollar bills stuffed into his pockets, he would be cooked.

  He started down a narrow path that led into the jungle, aware that his right ankle hurt. He forced himself along, limping now and frightened that he had suffered an injury that might develop into something bad.

  He hadn’t gone more than five hundred yards when he heard the wail of a siren. He broke into a limping run, stumbled and fell flat.

  Hell! he thought. I’ve hurt my goddamn self! He scrambled to his feet and set off again, but this time he was in bad pain and was dragging his leg. After a hundred yards or so, with cold sweat running down his face, he could go no further. He looked around. To his right was a big clump of tangled undergrowth. He forced his way to it, then collapsed on the damp ground. Sure that anyone coming down the path couldn’t see him, he stretched out his aching leg and prepared to
wait.

  What Johnny couldn’t know was that this. accident had saved his life. Had Davis delivered him to Jacksonville, Johnny would have walked into the trap Ernie and Toni had set up.

  He didn’t know, and he cursed his luck as he lay in the undergrowth feeling his leg slowly stiffening. He had been lying there for the past four hours.

  The police, the ambulance and the break-down truck had come and gone. The jungle was cool, and Johnny, badly shaken, was content to lie there and wait. He suffered. His ankle was swelling and when he looked at it, he saw with alarm it looked red and angry. Had he broken it? Maybe it was just a bad sprain. The thoughts of putting his weight on it made him flinch.

  Later, he became thirsty. He looked at his watch. The time was now 13.05. He would have to make an effort to get to the freeway. With any luck he would pick up a ride. He had to get to Jackson!

  He crawled out of the thicket and on to the path. He could smell the burned-out truck and the undergrowth that had gone up with it. On the path, he forced himself up on one leg, then gently he put a little of his weight on his damaged ankle. Pain raved up from the ankle into his head.

  Jesus! he thought. I’m in goddamn trouble! He sank down, feeling sweat break out on his face and a light feeling of faintness that frightened him.

  He had better wait, he thought. He had better get back into the undergrowth. Maybe later, he would be able to use his leg.

  He began to crawl back towards the undergrowth when he saw the snake.

  The thick-bodied Cottonmouth was coiled within eight feet of him. It raised its olive green head and its forked tongue darted.

  Johnny turned cold, the pain in his ankle forgotten. He had a horror of snakes. He lay there, motionless, not even blinking, watching the snake. Apart from its darting tongue, it too remained motionless.

  Minutes dragged by. Johnny thought of his gun. Should he try to shoot the snake? Then he thought of the danger. Someone might hear the sound of the shot and come to investigate. Maybe the snake would go away if he waited long enough. Would it attack him? It could be harmless. He had no knowledge of snakes and wasn’t to know that a Cottonmouth was lethal.

  Then slowly the snake began to uncoil while Johnny watched it with horror. The snake slid into the undergrowth where Johnny had been hiding. With the back of his hand, Johnny wiped away the sweat streaming down his face. Had that green nightmare been in the thicket with him?

  He had to get out of here!

  The sun was now penetrating the over-hanging trees. What wouldn’t he have given for a drink? The jungle could be swarming with snakes! Again he hoisted himself on one leg. He began hopping down the path towards the freeway. He had only taken four hops when he lost balance. The whole weight of his body came down on his injured ankle. He heard himself cry out as pain raved through him, then he fell, his head thumping - down on a tree root and blackness swept over him.

  “If they’re coming they should have been here by now,” Ernie said. He had just finished a can of pork and beans and he released a gentle belch.

  He and Toni were sitting in a ditch that gave them a direct view of the small clapboard house where Fuselli lived. Their car was out of sight behind a clump of trees, a quarter of a mile further down the dirt road.

  “So okay… so what?” Toni was slightly drunk. To bolster up his nerve, he had been hitting the bottle.

  “I’m going into town to call the boss.” Ernie said. “He’ll be wondering what we’re doing. We’ve been sitting in this goddamn ditch for eight hours.”

  “So what?” Toni repeated. “They could have had a blow-out. You stick here, Ernie. Don’t get your bowels in an uproar.” He reached for a can of stewed steak. “They could show any minute.”

  Ernie got to his feet.

  “I’m going. You stay here.”

  “The hell with that!” Toni wasn’t too drunk to realize that on his own if Johnny showed up, he could be in trouble. “You stick right here! Let’s give them a couple of hours, then we both go down town.”

  “Shut up!” Ernie snarled. “You stick here.” Climbing out of the ditch, he walked down the road to where the car was hidden.

  Twenty minutes later, he was talking to Massino. He explained the situation.

  “Right now, boss, we’re staked out, out of sight, in front of Fuselli’s pad, but it’s eight hours now. They should have been here four hours back. Toni reckons they could have had a blow-out or something. I don’t know. What do I do?”

  “Could be Toni’s right,” Massino said. “Stick around, Ernie, if they don’t show by eight o’clock tomorrow, come on back.”

  “Anything you say, boss,” Ernie said, thinking of the discomfort of spending a night in the ditch.

  Massino slammed down the receiver, then turned to Andy who

  was prowling around the office. He told him what Ernie had said.

  “There’s one thing we should have done, Mr. Joe,” Andy said. “We should have checked out Reddy’s cafe. I’ll do it. We should have thought of that right away.”

  “I want you here!” Massino snapped: “Get someone to do it! Send Lu Berilli!”

  “I’ll do it myself,” Andy said firmly. He was sick of staying in the office listening to Massino cursing Johnny. “I’ll…” Then he stopped as he saw Massino glaring at him, his little eyes like red, flaming buttons.

  “You stay here!” Massino snarled. “Don’t forget you’re the only punk who had the key to the safe? So, you stay here until I find Johnny and the money!”

  Andy was expecting this.

  “And if you don’t find him?”

  “Then I’ll start looking at you! Tell Berilli to go to the cafe and ask around.”

  “You’re the boss, Mr. Joe,” Andy said and reaching for the telephone he instructed Lu Berilli to go to Reddy’s cafe.

  Three hours later, Lu Berilli came hurriedly into Massino’s office. Berilli was a tall, thin Italian, around thirty years of age with a moviestar profile and a success with women. Massino considered him a bright boy and he was right. Berilli had a good brain, but Massino knew his limitations. There was a yellow streak in Berilli: he had no stomach for violence, and that meant he couldn’t rise very high in Massino’s kingdom.

  “You’ve taken your goddamn time!” Massino snarled.

  “I wanted to get this dead right, Mr. Joe,” Berilli said quietly, “And I’ve got it right.” He produced a one inch to the mile map and spread it on Massino’s desk. Leaning forward, he tapped with a manicured finger nail. “Right here, Mr. Joe, is where I guess Bianda is at this moment.”

  Massino, surprised, stared at the map, then up at Berilli.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “From my information, Johnny got a ride with a punch drunk trucker,” Bern said. “Heading south. I was told this trucker was due to blow his top. That’s what he did. The truck went off the freeway around seventy miles an hour just here.” Berilli again tapped the map. “The trucker was killed. There was a hell of a smash. There’s no trace of Bianda, but he has to be hurt. If we act fast, it’s my bet he’s holed up someswhere in this bit of jungle I’ve marked. If we get the mob down there pronto, we could flush him out.”

  Massino’s lips came off his teeth in a snarling grin.

  “Good work, Lu,” he said, then raising his voice, he bawled for Andy.

  Johnny felt cold water on his face that trickled into his mouth. He became aware of a shadowy figure bending over him. Fear clutched at him and he struggled up, shaking his head, forcing his eyes into focus. Then the figure bending over him became clear: a thin, bearded man, wearing a bush hat and khaki drill. He had a hooked nose and the sharpest, clearest blue eyes Johnny had ever seen.

  “Take it easy,” the man said gently. “You’ve found a friend.”

  Johnny struggled up into a sitting position. He was immediately aware of a dull, throbbing pain in his head and a sharp, grinding pain in his right ankle.

  “I’ve busted my ankle,” he said,
then grabbed hold of the water bottle the man, was holding and drank thirstily. “Phew!” He lowered the bottle and regarded the man suspiciously.

  “You have a bad sprain,” the man said. “No bones broken. Just take it easy. I’ll get an ambulance. Do you live around here?”

  “Who are you?” Johnny asked. His hand slid inside his coat and his sweating fingers closed around the butt of his gun.

  “I’m Jay Freeman,” the man said and smiled. He was squatting on his heels. “You take it easy. I’ll get you fixed.”

  “No!”

  The snap in Johnny’s voice made Freeman look sharply at him.

  “Are you in trouble, friend?” he asked.

  Friend?

  No one had ever used that word to him. Friend? It was now Johnny’s turn to look sharply at Freeman and what he saw was reassuring.

  “You call it that,” he said. “I’m in a spot, but I’ve got money. Can you put me under the wraps until this goddamn ankle is okay?”

  Freeman patted Johnny’s sweat-soaked arm.

  “I told you… take it easy. Is it police trouble?”

  “More than that.”

  “Put your arm around my neck. Let’s go.”

  With surprising strength, he got Johnny up on his left foot, then, supporting him, he helped him hop along the path until they reached the edge of the jungle where an old, broken-down Ford stood, parked in the shade.

  Johnny was sweating and in pain as Freeman helped him into the car.

  “Relax,” Freeman said as he slid under the driving wheel. “You’ve nothing to worry about.”

  Johnny relaxed. The pain in his ankle kept him from talking. He just lay against the worn plastic seat, thankful he was moving.

  He was dimly aware of being driven along the freeway, then up a dirt road, then along a narrow path where tree branches scraped against the sides of the car.

  “Here’s home,” Freeman said and brought the car to a stop.

  Johnny raised his head. He stared at a low-built log cabin, set in a clearing with trees overshadowing it. It looked good and safe to him.

  “No problem,” Freeman said as he got out of the car. “You can rest up here.”