1978 - Consider Yourself Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  Frost became alert. He leaned forward, ‘You mean that? How will you pay me?’

  Grandi shrugged.

  ‘As you like. Any bank anywhere . . . cash. I want her back!’

  ‘Are you really making a deal with me or are you just conning me?’ Frost said.

  ‘It’s a deal. I am too big a man to go back on my word. Bring her to me, and I will give you my word I will pay you five million dollars, but if you don’t find her, I again give you my word: consider yourself dead!’

  Frost got to his feet.

  ‘I’ll find her. It could take time, but for five million, I will find her!’

  Leaving the hotel, he stood for a long time by the Lamborghini. Around him was the murmur of voices. A swing band played on the hotel terrace. The big, yellow moon floated in a cloudless sky. The time was 21.05.

  Five million dollars!

  I am too big a man to go back on my word.

  Frost accepted that.

  The wheel had turned full circle. Now he had to find her.

  * * *

  Frost left the Lamborghini under a clump of mango trees, and walked the rest of the way.

  He could hear the sound of guitars and singing voices, and as he drew nearer, he picked up the smell of unwashed bodies and reefer smoke, so he knew he was approaching the hippy colony.

  There was plenty of cover and he moved cautiously. He could now see campfires burning and figures moving around. He paused behind a sea shrub and watched.

  There were some hundred or so young people milling around, talking, singing, some dancing by themselves: aimless, shiftless movements, and he guessed they were high.

  Somehow, he told himself, Gina just might be there.

  This scene would be what she called her thing, but how to find her?

  He moved to another clump of shrubs which brought him nearer to the camp fires. He waited, searching, watching, but he couldn’t see any girl milling around who resembled Gina.

  Should he walk into that mob and start asking questions? He decided it wouldn’t be safe. They all seemed pretty high, and he didn’t fancy the idea of walking into the midst of them.

  He squatted down on his haunches. Maybe, if he waited long enough . . .

  He watched and waited for longer than an hour, but still he saw no sign of Gina. Then just when he was deciding to give up, he heard a faint rustle behind him. A snake? He remained motionless, his muscles tense, ready to spring aside, but waiting.

  ‘Stay right where you are, man,’ a voice said behind him, ‘or you’ll lose a kidney.’

  He felt the prick of a knife in his back, and he relaxed.

  Snakes bothered him, but not a man with a knife.

  ‘I’m all still,’ he said.

  ‘We don’t like peepers around here, man,’ the voice said.

  Frost judged the speaker was young, but sure of himself.

  ‘Sorry,’ Frost made his voice sound humble. ‘You kids seem to be having a ball,’ then he acted. His right hand swept behind him, smashing against a wrist. He heard a yelp of pain as he spun around. He dropped on the crouching figure, flattening the man into the sand. His hands fastened on the lean, sweating neck.

  In the strong moonlight, he saw the Afro hairdo, the black glistening skin.

  ‘Going to be good, sonny?’ he said, his knee hard into the small of the negro’s back.

  ‘Sure . . . sure . . .’ the black gasped. ‘You’re killing me!’

  Frost looked quickly around. He saw the switchblade knife glittering in the moonlight some ten feet away. He was on his feet and had gathered up the knife before the black struggled to a sitting position.

  ‘Jesus, man!’ the black gasped. ‘I didn’t know you were fuzz. Honestly, I thought you were a peeper!’

  Frost threw the knife far into the dark shrubs.

  He regarded the black. He was lean, young, with big wild eyes and a scraggly chin beard. He was dressed in a chequered shirt and jeans.

  ‘What’s your name, sonny?’ Frost asked quietly.

  ‘I’m Buck. I swear I wasn’t going to hurt you. We don’t like peepers around here.’

  ‘I’m not a cop, Buck,’ Frost said, and walking slowly up to the black, he dropped in the sand beside him. ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘You go right on looking man,’ Buck said. ‘I’ll just scram.’

  Frost gripped the lean wrist and wrenched up the shirtsleeve. He didn’t have to see the puncture marks, he could feel them. This youth was a vein shooter.

  Buck tried to jerk free, but Frost easily held his wrist.

  ‘Want to make a hundred bucks?’ Frost said.

  Buck became tense.

  ‘You wouldn’t be kidding, man?’

  ‘When did you last have a fix?’

  Buck mumbled something, and again tried to break Frost’s hold.

  ‘Listen, Buck, I want you to look around among your friends. I am looking for a girl with red hair: she’s special. If she’s here, she can’t have been here longer than three hours. She might even have come and gone. If you spot her, don’t do anything, just come back here and tell me. If you spot her, you get a hundred bucks. If you don’t spot her, you get fifty. Okay?’

  ‘A girl with red hair?’

  ‘That’s it. You can’t mistake her. It’s a special red: not tinted: natural. She’s around twenty years of age: good body.’

  Buck got to his feet as Frost released his wrist.

  ‘A hundred bucks, man?’

  ‘Yep.’ Frost took out his billfold and showed the youth a hundred dollar bill. ‘All yours if you spot her.’

  ‘You wait right here, man. Don’t you move away.’

  ‘I’ll be here, and Buck, if you spot her, just keep going. Just come here and tell me.’

  ‘Okay, man.’

  Frost watched the black youth walk quickly and unsteadily towards the campfires. He watched him moving around. A girl went up to him, but Buck shoved her aside.

  He finally disappeared into the smoke and the gloom.

  Suppose this black youth got some of his friends and tried to jump him, Frost thought. He had shown Buck he had a wallet of money.

  Crouching, he moved back until he reached the shelter of a long line of mango trees. He loosened his gun in its holster, then leaning against a tree trunk, sure he was hidden, but could still see the campfires, he waited.

  It was a long wait, then just when he was deciding he wasn’t going to see Buck again, and as the hands of his watch moved to 23.15, he saw Buck coming at a jog-trot, and alone.

  Buck paused by the shrub and looked wildly around.

  Frost could see sweat pouring down his black skin, lit by the moonlight.

  ‘Okay, Buck,’ he called softly. ‘I’m right over here.’

  Buck shambled towards him and paused before him, panting.

  ‘You’re going to give me that bread, man?’ he gasped. ‘If I don’t get a fix soon, I’m going to blow my cork.’

  ‘Did you find her?’

  ‘Yeah, man, but she’s gone. She’s with Big Chet. He took her to his pad.’

  ‘Who’s Big Chet?’

  ‘Man, he’s mean. He runs this freak-out. He’s real mean!’

  ‘Where’s his pad, Buck?’

  ‘At the far end of the bay. He has a cabin. Give me that hundred, man!’

  ‘How do I know if you’re on the beam, Buck. Maybe it’s some other girl.’

  ‘I talked with my friends. Big Chet picked this babe off the highway. She calls herself Gina. She’s got red hair.’

  This satisfied Frost.

  ‘How do I get to the pad, Buck?’

  ‘Right along the beach. It’s around half a mile. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Can I get there by car?’

  ‘Sure . . . take the next turning off the highway: brings you right to it.’

  Frost gave him the hundred dollar bill.

  ‘Thanks, man,’ Buck said, started away, then paused.

  ‘You wa
tch it with Big Chet. Don’t tell him who told you,’ and he went off in a frantic, shambling run.

  Frost hurried back to the Lamborghini. He drove to the highway and took the next turning down to the beach. He turned off the car’s headlights and the engine, and coasted down the narrow, sandy track until he was in sight of the sea again.

  Leaving the car he walked the next hundred yards. To his left he could see the campfires. To his right, he saw a small wooden cabin, half hidden under the shade of palm trees. The dim Light of an oil lamp showed in a window.

  Drawing his gun, he moved silently across the sand until he reached the cabin.

  The only sound that came to him was distant guitar music, distant voices and the sea breaking on the beach.

  Edging forward, he looked into the lighted room. What he saw there, made him stiffen.

  Gina, naked, sat in a broken down armchair. Her hands rested on her knees. There were bloodstains on her hands and on her thighs. Her eyes were blank. She looked like a horrifying waxwork, but he could see by the uneven rise and fall of her breasts, she was alive.

  Lit by the smoking oil lamp was the prone figure of a big man, sprawled in death at Gina’s feet. He was wearing a grimy sweatshirt and tattered jeans.

  Growing out of his chest was the handle of a knife.

  Eight

  Gun in hand, Frost moved cautiously into the cabin. The thick smell of dirt, bodies and marijuana smoke was stomach turning. He bent over the body. He guessed this was Big Chet: no longer mean, and as dead as a floater, hauled in from the sea.

  The knife had been driven in with such violence, the blade had sealed the wound. There was little bleeding, but the handle of the knife showed blood.

  Frost then turned to Gina who sat motionless, her big eyes wide and fixed, her breasts moving as she breathed in spasms.

  ‘Gina!’

  No response.

  He passed his hand before her eyes, but they remained fixed. He touched her shoulder. . . hot and dry.

  One hell of a situation, he thought, and his cop trained mind went into immediate action. What to do? This was murder!

  He looked around the squalid cabin. A battered looking telephone stood on a pile of much thumbed Playboy magazines. He knew he couldn’t handle this situation alone.

  He called the Ace of Spades. When Umney came on the line, Frost said, ‘I’ve found her, but there’s real trouble. Silk and Mitch around?’

  ‘They’ve just come in. What trouble?’

  ‘I’m down at Paddler’s Creek. I want you three here fast!’ Frost snapped. ‘Bring trenching tools. We have something to bury!’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ Umney demanded, alarm in his voice.

  ‘You’ll see! Get moving. You know Twin Oakes motel?’

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’

  ‘Take the second turning on your left as you come up the highway before Twin Oakes, then come down to the beach. I’ll be waiting for you. I want you three here fast, and don’t forget the trenching tools!’ Frost hung up.

  He went over to Gina and stood looking at her. Apart from her breathing, she could be dead. Again he passed his hand before her eyes, again no response.

  He went out of the cabin, and stood breathing in the hot humid air, feeling sweat on his face.

  As he stood staring at the moonlit beach, he thought of what Grandi had promised. Five million dollars! This was something Silk, Goble and Umney would not know about!

  But suppose she died? She looked bad enough to die. The crazy little bitch must have gone on a trip. This big, dead slob must have given her L.S.D. She had flipped her lid and had stabbed the bastard.

  He returned to the cabin, hunted around and found a filthy rag which he soaked from a trickle of water from a tap. He washed the blood off her thighs and her hands.

  She remained like a waxwork. Then he looked around and found at the end of a dirty, sagging bed, her clothes: jeans, a T-shirt, panties and sandals.

  He went to her and dragged her out of the chair. She flopped like a sawdust doll with escaping sawdust, against him. Somehow, he managed to get her into the jeans.

  Twice she slipped out of his sweating hands and sprawled on the floor. Twice, cursing, he dragged her up, and finally zipped up the jeans. He was now worried sick. She still remained like a waxwork. He got the T-shirt on her, then dropped her back into the chair.

  By now, hating the feel of her, sickened by the smell in the cabin, he went out into the open.

  He was aware he was wasting time. Gina might die on him. There were complications. Suppose Silk wouldn’t play? Suppose he drew back on murder? Suppose he wouldn’t bury Big Chet?

  Frost thought, then he returned to the cabin and using the telephone, he called the Spanish Bay hotel. Within a minute, Grandi came on the line.

  ‘I have real trouble,’ Frost said. ‘I’ve found her, but she is way out on a L.S.D. trip. She looks bad . . . really bad.’

  ‘Can you get her to the Paradise Clinic?’ Grandi asked, his voice like a fall of gravel, ‘or should I get an ambulance?’

  ‘I’ll get her there,’ Frost said. ‘No ambulance. There are other complications.’

  ‘I’ll alert the clinic,’ Grandi said, ‘and I’ll be there.’ He hung up.

  Frost again looked at Gina, again passed his hands before her eyes. No response. Then he heard the sound of a fast approaching car. He ran out of the cabin as the car pulled up. Silk, Umney and Goble spilled out.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Silk snarled, walking up to Frost.

  ‘Take a look.’

  Frost led the three men into the cabin.

  ‘That’s the way I found the scene,’ he said.

  The three men stared at the dead body, then at Gina.

  ‘Did she kill him?’ Umney asked in a hushed voice.

  ‘Who else? She’s way out on a trip. She could die on us,’ Frost said. ‘Get this hunk of meat buried.’

  ‘If she’s killed him, we have Grandi just where we want him,’ Silk said. ‘We can still pick up twenty million dollars.’

  ‘But not if she dies,’ Frost said. ‘Bury this slob!’

  Silk thought for a long moment, then turned to Umney and Goble.

  ‘Bury him, but know where he can be dug up. Bury him just as he is, and don’t touch the knife. She’ll have her prints on the handle. Get moving!’

  While Umney and Goble were dragging the dead body out of the cabin, Silk smiled evilly at Frost.

  ‘This is the big deal,’ he said. ‘Grandi pays twenty million or we leak it to the cops. We can’t lose this time.’

  Frost went to Gina, picked her up, like a sawdust doll, and carried her across the hot sand and through the humid heat to the Lamborghini.

  Silk followed.

  ‘Keep out of this!’ Frost said as he placed the inert Gina in the passenger’s seat. ‘Stay away!’ He slid into the driving seat, gunned the engine, and leaving Silk, he drove fast up the sandy road to the highway.

  It took him fifteen minutes of fast driving to reach the Paradise Clinic. He pulled up outside the emergency entrance. It took him less than two minutes to get action.

  Grandi had already switched on his power. An intern and a nurse were waiting, and they whisked Gina’s inert body away.

  While he stood by the Lamborghini, sweating in the humid heat, Grandi drove up in the Rolls.

  Frost went to meet him.

  ‘She’s in emergency,’ he said. ‘She looks bad.’

  Grandi stood motionless, glaring at Frost.

  ‘There’s a hell of a complication,’ Frost went on. ‘She picked up with a wayout freak who fed her L.S.D. She went on a bad trip, and she killed him.’

  Grandi stood a step back.

  ‘Killed him?’ he croaked.

  ‘Yes . . . she stabbed him to death. The hippy is buried. If we have any luck, no one will know about this, but it’ll cost you, Grandi. My associates buried him.’

  Grandi stared for a long moment at Frost, then he s
trode through the swing doors of the emergency entrance and out of sight.

  Frost drew in a deep breath. He lit a cigarette with a sweating hand. The sound of a car coming to a screeching halt made him look around. Silk got out of the car and came over.

  ‘What gives?’ he demanded, planting himself in front of Frost.

  ‘I told you to keep out of this!’ Frost said angrily. ‘So keep out of it!’

  ‘Use your head!’ Silk said. ‘We have Grandi where we want him. She killed this creep and we can prove it. You set up the deal. Squeeze him for twenty million! Tell him he pays or his goddamn daughter faces a murder rap!’

  Frost stared at this hatchet-faced, professional killer. He had a sudden feeling of revulsion. It came to him that because of his burning desire to be rich, he had let free this crazy girl, and because she had escaped, she had committed murder. His desire for sudden wealth suddenly turned sour, and he felt sick of himself.

  Turning, he made for the emergency entrance.

  ‘Hey! Where are you going?’ Silk shouted.

  Paying no attention, Frost walked up to the reception desk. An elderly woman looked enquiringly at him.

  ‘A message for Mr. Grandi,’ Frost said.

  The magic name brought the woman immediately alert.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be at the villa if he wants me. The name’s Frost.’

  She wrote on a scratch pad.

  ‘I’ll see he gets your message, Mr. Frost.’

  A thought dropped into Frost’s mind.

  ‘How is Mr. Amando?’ he asked.

  The elderly woman’s fat face turned sad.

  ‘He died an hour ago. He had a second heart attack.’

  ‘He’s lucky,’ Frost said, and leaving her, gaping, he went out into the humid heat.

  Silk grabbed hold of his arm.

  ‘Get back in there and talk to Grandi!’

  Frost set himself, then smashed his right fist against Silk’s jaw. He knew there would now be little pleasure, if any, in his life before him, but, at least, as his knuckles slammed against Silk’s face, he did have pleasure.

  Silk became airborne. He hurtled backwards and crashed down on the tarmac.

  Frost got into the Lamborghini and drove fast to Orchid Villa.