This Way for a Shroud

by James Hadley Chase

  “They must be safe,” Madge said, speaking her thoughts aloud as they drove back to the hunting lodge. “No one could get through to them, could they, Paul?”

  “Don’t worry,” he returned. “I’m satisfied it’s all right. I don’t think an attempt will be made so long as they remain here. Maurer will try to get them when they come into the open. That’s the time we shall really have to be on our guard.”

  Thunder was rumbling in the distance as Conrad put the car into the garage, and walked with Madge back to the lodge. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of one of the guards, a police dog at his heels, moving through the trees.

  “It’s still some way off,” he said, as they mounted the steps to the verandah. “I’d better grab a slicker before they all go.”

  “You won’t be going out again tonight, will you?”

  “It’s the only way I can be sure the guards keep on their toes. If they thought I wasn’t going to show up, they’d take cover as soon as it started to rain.”

  Conrad saw a dim, shadowy figure sitting on the verandah.

  “Is that vou. Tom?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” O’Brien said.

  “I think I’ll turn in,” Madge said. “Miss Coleman’s gone up. There’s a light in her room. Good night, Paul. Good night, sergeant.”

  Conrad wandered over to where O’Brien was sitting and flopped into a chair beside him.

  “Phew! It’s close.”

  “Going to be a storm,” O’Brien said. There was a flat, uneasy note in his voice that made Conrad prick up his ears.

  “It won’t reach us for another hour yet. What’s the time, Tom?”

  “Quarter to ten. It’s coming up a damn sight faster than you imagine. I bet you it’ll be right over the house in ten minutes. Hark at that,” he went on as thunder crashed suddenly. “Coming up fast.”

  “All okay your end, Tom?”

  “I guess so.”

  The flat, uneasy voice had a disquieting effect on Conrad.

  “Are you all right, Tom?” he asked, trying to see O’Brien in the darkness.

  “Of course I’m all right,” O’Brien snapped, and heaved himself out of his chair. “I guess that punk wants his bath now. It’s coming up for ten o’clock.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Conrad said, still a little worried by O’Brien’s apparent edginess. “I want to make the rounds before I turn in.”

  “Are you going out again?”

  “Yes, about three, I guess.”

  A flash of lightning lit up the verandah, and Conrad was startled to see how pale O’Brien looked.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Tom?”

  “Hell, yes! Maybe the storm’s given me a headache, but there’s nothing the matter with me,” O’Brien said, and wiped his glistening face with his handkerchief. “I never did like thunderstorms.”

  The crash of thunder that came while he was speaking shook the hunting lodge.

  “Phew! It sounds overhead already,” Conrad said.

  O’Brien walked into the hall where a guard sat nursing a riot gun.

  Conrad joined him and together they walked up the stairs.

  “Hot enough to fry eggs,” Conrad said, taking out his handkerchief to mop his face.

  O’Brien didn’t say anything. He was wondering if Ferrari had got inside the bathroom yet. His mouth felt dry, and he was aware the muscles in his legs were fluttering and his heart was pounding.

  They walked along the lighted passage where another guard sat facing the head of the stairs.

  “Hark at that: rain,” Conrad said. “Well, you were right. There must be quite a gale blowing.”

  They could hear the rain hammering on the roof. Conrad paused a moment to peer out of the window on the landing. A solid sheet of water streamed down the window pane, sending a white mist of spray as it cascaded down the sloping roof. Jagged flashes of lightning lit up the rain-soaked trees and lawn.

  Thunder rolled and crashed in a deafening crescendo.

  O’Brien opened Pete’s bedroom door.

  Pete was in his dressing-gown, a towel over his arm. He stood by the window, looking out.

  Two of his guards were playing gin rummy at a table away from the window. The third guard nursed a riot gun and watched Pete’s back with bored indifference.

  At the sound of the door opening, Pete looked around. The two guards at the table stiffened, their hands moving to their hip pockets. The guard with the riot gun got to his feet.

  “Okay, relax,” Conrad said, coming in. He was pleased to see how alert everyone was. “Some night, huh?”

  “I’ll say,” the guard with the riot gun returned.

  Conrad noticed Pete was looking past him at O’Brien, and there was an alert, quizzing look in Pete’s eyes. Conrad looked quickly at O’Brien. He was surprised to see how white and hard O’Brien’s face was, and there was a savage gleam in his eyes Conrad had never seen before.

  “Well, come on,” O’Brien said, and he seemed to be speaking through clenched teeth. He walked out of the room and Pete followed him.

  The two guards resumed their card game. The guard holding the riot gun groped for a cigarette.

  Conrad stood hesitating, then he went after Pete.

  Pete was walking just behind O’Brien, along the passage to the bathroom, which was down a few stairs and round a bend in the passage. They had to pass Frances’s room which was a few feet from the bathroom.

  Conrad caught up with Pete as O’Brien turned the bathroom door handle and pushed the door open.

  “Stay here,” O’Brien growled to Pete, and turning on the light he walked into the bathroom.

  Conrad moved around Pete and stood in the doorway, watching O’Brien, who glanced over his shoulder and saw Conrad. It was only with a tremendous effort that O’Brien managed to keep his face expressionless.

  O’Brien opened the big cupboard door and glanced inside, then he crossed over to the shower curtains. His heart was beating so violently he could scarcely breathe.

  He turned his broad back towards the door and partially blotted out the shower curtains from Conrad’s view. Then he parted the curtains and glanced inside.

  Even though he was expecting to see Ferrari behind the curtains, the shock of looking into those deep-sunken murderous eyes made his heart turn a somersault.

  Ferrari, as still as a statue, held an automatic in his right hand which pointed at O’Brien’s stomach.

  For a split second the two men looked at each other, then O’Brien dropped the curtain and still keeping his face turned from Conrad’s watching eyes, he went over to the toilet basin and began to rinse his hands.

  Thunder crashed overhead, and lightning coming through the small window filled the bathroom with a dazzling flash of light.

  Conrad came into the bathroom.

  “I’ll have a wash too,” he said. “Phew! It’s running off me.”

  O’Brien stepped back, and without appearing to do so, forced Conrad away from the shower curtains.

  “Think it’s going on all night?” he asked as he began to dry his hands on a towel. He tried very hard to speak casually, but Conrad again caught the overtones of uneasiness in O’Brien’s voice.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised.” He took the towel from O’Brien. Glancing up, his eyes took in the bathroom window. “I’ve been wondering if I should put a second bar up there.”

  O’Brien had to make an effort to keep his eyes from straying towards the shower curtains.

  “Think anyone could squeeze through that?” he said, trying to sound scornful. “Why, it’s impossible.”

  Conrad wandered to the door.

  “I guess that’s right.” He moved out into the passage. “Okay, Weiner. Go ahead.”

  Pete entered the bathroom.

  As O’Brien pushed past him, their eyes met and Pete received a shock. What was the matter with the guy? he wondered. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

  Then suddenly he felt a cold wave of
fear wash over him. It was just as if a bodiless voice had whispered a warning in his ear. He became transfixed, more frightened than he had ever been before in his life.

  O’Brien had reached the door.

  “Wait…” Pete managed to stammer. “I — I don’t think…”

  A crash of thunder drowned what he was trying to say, but O’Brien saw the livid fear on his face. He realized Pete was about to say he had changed his mind and he wasn’t going to take a bath.

  “Get on with it!” he barked as he stepped into the passage. “I’m not going to stay up all night for you!”

  He slammed the door as Pete started to speak again.

  “These goddamn punks think they own the earth as soon as you treat them like humans,” O’Brien went on to Conrad, keeping his voice raised. “A bath every night! Who the hell thought up that gag?” While he spoke he leaned his back against the door; his hand holding the door knob. He felt the door knob turn, and by the sudden pressure of the door he knew Pete was trying to open it.

  “Hadn’t you better go along and see if the girl’s all right?” he said to Conrad. “The storm may be upsetting her.”

  He managed to keep the door closed by exerting his great strength. Pete was pulling at the door handle violently.

  “Madge’s there,” Conrad said, busy lighting a cigarette. He didn’t notice O’Brien’s strained, white face. “I’ll go along in a little while.”

  Another crash of thunder rolled over the house, and faintly O’Brien heard Pete yell through the door panel.

  “What was that?” Conrad asked, looking up.

  “Thunder,” O’Brien said. “What did you think it was?”

  As he spoke he felt the pressure on the door suddenly cease; then the door handle twisted sharply.

  “I thought I heard someone call out,” Conrad said, and moved along the passage. He paused outside Frances’s door and listened.

  O’Brien stood still, his heart beating unevenly.

  Thunder crashed and rolled overhead. The hiss of rain against the windows and the gurgling of water in the gutters blotted out all other sounds.

  Then he heard a faint groan come from behind the bathroom door. It was a sound that made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up stiffly.

  He stepped away from the door, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

  III

  Conrad came back along the passage.

  “They’re all right: talking like a couple of magpies,” he said, then catching sight of O’Brien’s white, strained face, he went on, “You’re looking pretty sick, Tom. Why don’t you get off to bed? I’ll wait here for Weiner.”

  “There’s nothing the matter with me,” O’Brien snapped. “For the love of mike, lay off, will you? I’m going to bed, anyway, as soon as this punk’s finished.”

  Conrad offered his pack of cigarettes, but O’Brien shook his head.

  For a long moment the two men stood listening to the violence of the storm, then Conrad asked, “How’s your boy, Tom?”

  “He’s all right,” O’Brien returned, giving Conrad a quick, startled look.

  “Ever thought how damned lucky you are?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that.” I’ve always wanted a son, but Janey won’t hear of it. She says it’d spoil her figure.”

  “It could at that,” O’Brien said, scarcely knowing what he was saying. “A girl

  like your wife doesn’t want to mess around with kids.”

  Conrad shrugged his shoulders.

  “Oh, well, what’s the good of talking? All the same I would like to have a son, and a daughter, too, for that matter.”

  O’Brien wiped his face with his handkerchief.

  “Why don’t you turn in?” he asked, wondering how much longer Conrad was going to stay outside the bathroom door. “If you’re going out again at three you’ll need some sleep.”

  “I couldn’t sleep in this storm. How long is he going to be in there?”

  “Twenty minutes or so. Hark at that thunder.”

  “I wish that Coleman girl would make up her mind to talk,” Conrad said after the rolling crash of thunder had died away. “I’m positive she saw Maurer.”

  “Doesn’t look as if she’ll talk now. What are you going to do with her?”

  “The D.A. will have to decide that.”

  The sound of water splashing behind the bathroom door made O’Brien’s heart skip a beat.

  “You know Weiner puzzles me,” Conrad said. Tm inclined to think his birthmark drove him off the rails. There’s no real vice in him: not like the rest of them. What’s his record amount to? We have no evidence he ever committed violence. As far as I know he specializes in stealing cars for the gang. I’ve talked to him, and I think he could be put back on to the rails again.”

  “The hell with him!” O’Brien said savagely. “I’ve got no time for these hoods: and that’s what he is. Just because a guy happens to have a birth-mark doesn’t give him the right to steal cars.”

  “Isn’t it time he came out?” Conrad said, looking at his strap watch. “He’s been over twenty minutes.”

  “Aw, he doesn’t hurry himself.”

  Conrad rapped on the door.

  “Snap it up, Weiner!” he called.

  O’Brien inwardly cursed Conrad. He wondered if Ferrari had gone. With an unsteady hand he lit a cigarette.

  The noise of the storm was slowly receding. Every now and then thunder crashed, but it was now more distant. The rain continued to hammer down on the roof and hiss in the gutters.

  O’Brien saw Conrad turn the bathroom door handle, then frown.

  “He’s locked himself in! There shouldn’t be a lock on this door, Tom.”

  “So what?” O’Brien growled.

  Conrad rapped again.

  “Are you ready, Weiner?”

  The silence that greeted him alarmed him.

  “Hey, Weiner!”

  “What are you getting so heated about?” O’Brien asked.

  “Why doesn’t he answer?”

  “Maybe he’s sulking. I’ll kick his tail off for him when he comes out.”

  “Hey, Weiner!”

  Conrad banged on the door with his fist. When there was no answer, he stepped back, his face hardening.

  “Come on, Tom! Let’s get this door open!”

  “Take it easy,” O’Brien said. “Let me have a go at the punk.”

  “We’re wasting time.”

  Conrad set himself and drove the flat of his foot against the door lock. The

  door creaked but held.

  “Let me get at it,” O’Brien said, sure now Ferrari must have gone.

  He stepped back, then charged the door, turning his shoulder as he crashed against the door panel.

  The door burst open and O’Brien staggered into the bathroom.

  “Hell!” Conrad exploded, crowding in behind O’Brien. “Quick, Tom! Help me get him out!”

  Pete lay stretched out in the bath. The small room was full of steam. Pete’s head was under the water, and around his head and shoulders the water was a pinkish colour.

  O’Brien reached forward and pulled the waste plug out. He caught hold of Pete’s hair and lifted his face clear of the water.

  “He must have been crazy to have got into a bath this hot,” he muttered, his hand going down on Pete’s chest. He felt for a heartbeat, then shook his head. “He’s gone, Paul.”

  “Move over!” Conrad snapped. “Let me get hold of his legs. Come on! Get him out and let’s work on him.”

  Together they lifted Pete out of the bath.

  “Bring him into the passage. There’s no room to work in here,”

  Conrad said.

  They carried Pete into the passage and laid him face down on the floor. Conrad knelt astride him and began giving him artificial respiration.

  Pete’s personal guards had come out of Pete’s bedroom and were standing, watching.

  O’Brien leaned against th
e wall. The strength had gone out of his legs, and it was as much as he could do to stand upright.

  Conrad worked steadily.

  No one moved or spoke. Thunder continued to roll and rumble in the distance. The rain was falling less heavily now.

  At the end of a quarter of an hour, Conrad sat back on his heels. His finger touched the artery in Pete’s neck. He shook his head.

  “I’m afraid he’s gone. Here, Wilson, you take over. Keep at it. You other two relieve him.”

  The guard came over and knelt astride Pete’s lifeless body. He continued the rhythmic pressure on Pete’s back.

  Conrad went into the bathroom. O’Brien came to the door and watched him.

  Conrad began a systematic search of the bathroom.

  “There’s blood on the taps,” he said. “He must have slipped and caught his head, lost consciousness and went under.”

  “Yeah,” O’Brien said. “The water was too hot.”

  Conrad straightened and stared up at the window. The puzzled, searching expression in his eyes sent a chill up O’Brien’s spine.

  “What are you looking at?” he demanded.

  “I was wondering if he did faint in his bath. He might have been got at.”

  “For Pete’s sake! How?”

  “Yes — how?” Conrad said, and ran his fingers through his hair. “There was no one hiding in here. If someone tried to get through the window Weiner would have had time to yell.” He turned quickly and stared at O’Brien. “I did think I heard him call out.”

  “I didn’t; besides, no one could get through the window. It’s too small. Even a dwarf would have to struggle, and Weiner would have had time to come out.”

  “Yes, I guess that’s right,” Conrad said after a moment’s thought. He went out into the passage again. “Any sign of life?” he asked Wilson, who shook his head.

  “He’s gone, sir. The hot water in his lungs would have finished him quicker than anything.”

  One of the guards brought a blanket and spread it over Pete’s body.

  “Well, that’s that,” Conrad said in disgust. “After all the trouble we’ve taken to keep him safe from Maurer, he has to die accidentally.”

  He heard a sound behind him and looked over his shoulder.

  Frances’s door was open and she was standing in the doorway looking down at Pete.