Lady—Here's Your Wreath

by James Hadley Chase

  Lady—Here's Your Wreath

  James Hadley Chase

  When journalist Nick Mason got a hot tip to investigate the frame-up of a man being executed for murder, he didn’t know what he was in for. At the gas chamber, it was Vessi’s last words that gave Mason the clue to a peculiar cover up at the respectable Mackenzie Fabric Corporation. But when Mason gets warned off by a cold-eyed gunman and a dangerous hooker called Blondie, he would have abandoned the whole investigation… if it weren’t for the irresistible Mardi, the girl from Mackenzie Fabrics who might be able to lead him to the truth.

  Raymond Marshall

  (James Hadley Chase)

  LADY—HERE’S YOUR WREATH

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE BOYS, WHO had come to see Vessi die, were lined up before the bar. They were putting up a good front, but they were all scared sick.

  I came into the bar just when the liquor was hitting them. When they saw me, they let out a groan.

  “For Gawd’s sake, look who’s here,” Barry shouted. “The nine days’ sensation himself.”

  Barry Hughson was a good guy, but he’d got plenty of gristle mixed with his brains. I just called for a rye and gave them a grin. “H’yah, boys,” I said, waving my hand. “I bet some of you’re goin’ to change your tune mighty soon.”

  They didn’t like that crack, and gathered round looking tough. Hughson poked me in the chest with his forefinger. That’s a thing I love. Some guy poking me in the chest. Barry was tight, so I let it slide.

  “Listen, Bud,” he said, screwing up his eyes to get my face in focus, “this little business is by invitation only. You don’t stand a chance. Be a nice lad an’ scram.”

  I belted the rye and showed him my card. “You boys ain’t the only guys,” I said. “I’m with you all the way.”

  Hackenschmidt of the Globe pushed his hat to the back of his head, “How d’you pull these quick ones?” he asked, his fat face looking like a startled Dutch cheese. “You ain’t got any standin’ around here, but you’re always in on the right things.”

  I nodded. “I know,” I said, “it’s tough, but there it is… better to be early than late, as the airline hostess said to the passenger.”

  Hughson filled his glass. He looked at the clock. “Deadline 12.1,” he said.

  Hackenschmidt grabbed a handful of drinking-straws and broke them in two; discarded one lot and carefully counted the rest. I watched him thoughtfully. “You’ve left me out,” I said, after he was through.

  The guy lifted his thick lip. It was his idea of a sneer. “Yeah?” he said. “I guess you ain’t in this.”

  I leant forward and picked up a straw. “Put it in the bundle and don’t be a punk,” I said, offering it to him.

  He looked at me, and I looked at him. Then he took the straw. Some of these flabby guys think they’re tough. Hackenschmidt was just punk, right through.

  One of the straws was a lot shorter than the others. The guy who drew the short one got Vessi’s last words. I wanted the job bad.

  Hughson pulled the first straw, but he didn’t get the short one. I let three more have a go, then I shoved a little, and the other guys gave way. I knew the short one, so I got it.

  The others stood round, glaring at me.

  “You gotta play ball,” Hughson said. “Don’t start anythin’ that ain’t on the level.”

  I tossed the straw away. “You’ll get it all,” I said. “Don’t you worry.”

  The time was 11.20. Just time for a couple more drinks. Those guys belted their rye like they expected to die themselves.

  Outside, we crowded into three cars that were waiting to take us to the prison. Hughson, Hackenschmidt and I, with two other guys, got in the first car. Hughson drove and I sat beside him.

  When he’d got the car moving, he said: “Why the interest, Nick?”

  I grinned in the darkness. Hughson was a cagy bird, but he wasn’t getting anything from me. “Why not?” I asked him. “Vessi made a big noise, didn’t he? I thought I’d see him go. Anyway, this gas stunt’s a new one on me.”

  Hughson swung the car past an overloaded truck.

  “Not much you miss, is there?”

  I shrugged. “I get by.”

  “Think Vessi did it?”

  I grinned again. “Don’t you?”

  Hughson swore softly: “Listen, you bum, if there’s anything behind this, let me have it. I’ve done things for you, an’ I guess—”

  “Skip it,” I said shortly. “How the hell do I know whether he did it or not? The jury pinned it on him, didn’t they?”

  “I ain’t interested in what the jury thought. I’m askin’ what you think.”

  “I never think, brother,” I said hastily. “I just wait until somethin’ happens.”

  Hughson snorted. “Okay, smart guy,” he said. “Wait until you want somethin’.”

  We reached the prison at 11.40. There were some other witnesses waiting outside the gates as we drove up. They all looked uneasy in the dim light, and moved a little way away as we came tumbling out of the cars. We stood there in a bunch, pretending we didn’t know what we were there for, until the gates were opened at 11.45.

  A couple of bulls inspected our cards and gave us a quick frisk. Since the Snyder execution the authorities were scared sick that another guy would smuggle in a camera. The boys knew it was pretty useless to try, and the cops knew they knew it, so the frisk was really just a matter of form. When they got through, we started through a maze of gates, each of which was locked behind Us before we could pass through the next.

  We marched single file, and I guess we looked a fine bunch of professional mourners. We went past the big cell buildings, our footsteps resounding on the walk. It was dark and silent in the cells. The death house was over in the far corner of the immense prison yard.

  We walked round the hearse, parked in front of the death house, and a number of us just took one quick look at that wagon and tucked in our tails.

  The death house had two entrances. One led to a narrow passage between the death chamber and wall of the death house. The other led to the little cell where Vessi was—a few feet from the entrance.

  There was no other building near the death house. It stood alone in a corner of the yard, where the convicts played their ball game. As we shuffled across the yard the dust got on to our shoes and we took it into the death house with us.

  The guard stopped at the entrance. “Who’s the guy for the last words?”

  I stepped out of the file and jerked my thumb.

  “Okay,” he said. “You wait here.”

  The rest of the guys trooped down the passage and grouped themselves before the glass windows of the gas chamber. Hughson was the last one to take up a position. He said to me, as he passed: “Watch yourself, Bud.”

  I was surprised that a grin didn’t come easy. This business was getting me a little nervy.

  The gas chamber was octagonal in shape and made of steel, with windows on all sides. The narrow passage where the other boys had gone was built to allow four feet of space between the wall of the death house and the chamber. There was a very high steel chimney from the chamber up through the death house, to carry off the fumes once the execution was over.

  I had a little more space on my side. I looked into the chamber. It was about five feet wide, and empty except for a steel chair, equipped with straps, standing in the centre. The cyanide ‘eggs’ were suspended from the bottom of the chair. I didn’t like the look of this spot. It gave me the heebies just to imagine myself sitting in there.

  From where I stood, I could look through the window of the chamber and see the boys on the opposite side, looking through their window at me. They waved at me and
I gave them the two-digit high sip. Those guys certainly looked a bunch of monkeys massed up behind the glass.

  I had come to see Vessi, so I thought I might as well have a look at him. He was sitting in his cell, smoking a cigarette. He was naked but for a pair of underwear shorts.

  I looked at the guard. “What’s the idea—him like that?”

  The guard glanced in at the cell. “We always strip ’em down as far as we can. The gas sticks to clothes and it makes it difficult for us to get ’em out.”

  “There’s goin’ to be a mighty rush for tickets when they put a dame in there,” I said.

  The guard made a grimace. I guess he wasn’t feeling too good. “Yeah,” he said, “but they’ll keep you bums outta here.”

  Vessi was a big guy, with a sullen, heavy face. Considering what was coming to him, I thought he was taking it pretty well. There was a glassy look in his eyes, and he was looking glum, but he wasn’t in a panic.

  The chaplain, a short, fat, worried-looking guy, sat on a chair, his head lowered, intoning a prayer. Vessi looked at him every now and then and licked his lips. I could see he wished the chaplain would stop the intoning.

  I felt a sudden shiver run through me, as if it had turned cold. But it hadn’t. I was sweating. The warden came down the passage quickly. There was a greenish pallor on his face, and he didn’t look at me.

  He just said “Okay” to the guard.

  They unlocked the door to the little cell. Vessi’s skin tightened, and he looked beyond the guards at me. I didn’t like meeting that guy’s eye, but I thought maybe I’d better give him a little encouragement. I winked at him. It was a hell of a thing to do, but I just had to tell him I was feeling for him.

  The guard tapped him on the shoulder, and he stood up. He was steadier on his feet than I was.

  The chaplain droned on. I could guess how Vessi felt about it. I had to hold myself in. Those prayers didn’t seem to be getting us anywhere.

  Vessi came out of the cell. He was handcuffed, and he kept twisting his wrists, fidgeting with the bracelets.

  The warden read the death-warrant in a sombre, get-it-over sort of voice. I could see a trickle of sweat running down behind his ear. When he was through he said: “Any last words?”

  This was what I’d been waiting for. I moved forward so that I was close to Vessi. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the other guys pressed against the glass window, taking it all in, and watching me closely. Vessi looked right at me. “You got the wrong guy,” he said, his voice not quite steady. “I didn’t do it.”

  The guards closed round him, but Vessi suddenly stiffened. He continued to look at me. “Break it open, Mason,” he said in a low mumble. “Lu Spencer pulled it. You gotta get him—it was Lu— do you hear—?”

  The guards bustled him and he was shoved into the chamber. I made a note to please the boys, but I left the last angle out.

  They put Vessi in the steel chair with the pellets under it. The straps were tightened. While this was going on—it took under forty-five seconds—he kept his eyes on my face. I nodded to him, trying to tell him I was going to do something about it. He saw he’d got my attention and relaxed in the chair.

  A guard brought a crock of sulphuric acid and put it under the chair—directly under the pellets. Then he took it on the lam quick. The warden inspected the straps—one around Vessi’s chest, two on each arm, and one on each leg. He put his hand on Vessi’s shoulder. “You’ll go quick, boy,” he said. “Take a deep breath—you won’t know anythin’ about it.” Then he walked out of the chamber.

  Vessi was in there alone.

  The guard swung the heavy steel door shut, and shoved home the bolts. I and the warden stood looking into the chamber through the little window by the door. Ten seconds to wait, and those ten seconds seemed like ten years. I felt my heart bumping.

  Vessi turned his head slowly, looking at the faces watching him. He was beginning to realise what was coming to him.

  The warden had his eye on his watch. He reached out and put his hand on the lever which dropped the pellets into the acid. I could see him screwing up his will to pull that lever, and I was glad he had to do it and not me. I couldn’t look at Vessi any more. I found my eyes on the warden’s hand. I could see his muscles gradually tightening. Then with a little sigh, that came through his clenched teeth in a hiss, he jerked the lever down. The pellets dropped into the crock with a distinct flop. Vessi heard it and stiffened in his chair. A white gas began to drift from the acid. I could see the muscles of his arms suddenly bulge as he strained on the straps.

  The gas rose rapidly. I thought I could taste bitter almonds— but I knew that was cock-eyed. My imagination was getting the better of me.

  Vessi smelt the gas. He tossed his head back, twisting to escape the fumes. The steel chair held him. I could see him holding his breath. This guy was making it bad for himself. Finally he couldn’t hold it any longer, and he gasped. He got a big dose of the gas that time. He screamed suddenly: “No! No!” The sound of his yell rattled round the chamber. It came to us muffled and eerie.

  I found myself gripping on to the steel bolt of the door. This was getting me in the guts.

  Vessi choked, gasped and writhed against his bonds. I wanted to take a gun out and finish him quick.

  The doctor at my elbow kept one eye on a stop-watch. Thirty seconds—thirty-five—Vessi still choked. Forty-five seconds and his head dropped back. The doctor scribbled the time opposite a blank on the sheet before him. Vessi seemed unconscious.

  His head was back, and he had stopped coughing. The fumes filled the chamber. Slowly, very slowly, his head came forward. Gradually it dropped between his shoulders,, his long, black hair fell across his eyes. I could see his stomach muscles were still contracting. Three minutes had gone past. With a little shake his head came up a bit.

  The doctor said, in a low, bored voice: “He’s dead.”

  I stepped away from the window. Hughson came rushing round from the other side of the chamber, followed by the mob. They all looked pop-eyed and slightly sick. I felt that way myself. It took Vessi four minutes and a bit to die.

  “What did he say?” Hughson demanded.

  I shrugged. “He said, ‘You got the wrong guy, I didn’t do it’.”

  “Yeah?” Hackenschmidt sneered. “That’s been his yap right through the trial.”

  Hughson was looking at me suspiciously. “Did he say anythin’ else?”

  I shook my head. “No… just that.”

  They made a dive to get out. There was an immediate scramble for ’phones and the telegraph office. I let the rush get on ahead, then I turned to follow.

  The warden touched my arm. He was trying to look casual. “I shouldn’t pin much to the Spencer angle,” he said.

  I paused and looked at him, but he was wearing a dead pan.

  “You don’t think so?” I said hopefully.

  He shook his head. “I should forget all about it.”

  I pushed my hat a little over my eyes. “Did you hear the one about the guy with a wooden leg, playin’ ping-pong…?”

  The warden nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s got round to me.”

  I edged towards the exit. “I guessed maybe it had,” I said, and left him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I WENT OVER to the Press room at Police Headquarters. There was one guy I wanted to talk to, and I was hoping he’d be there. He was.

  I pushed open the door and looked around the smoke-laden room. Four of the usual mob were playing cards round a small table in the centre of the room. I just gave them a quick glance and looked further. Over in the corner, on a battered couch, Ackie was sleeping.

  Ackie was the ugliest guy I’d ever seen. He was a little runt, with coarse hair growing out of his ears, his nose and out of his collar. His face must have given the midwife a series of nightmares when he was born, but I knew he was about the smartest Press man on the beat.

  I wandered over to him and pulled
up a chair. Then I shook him awake.

  When he saw me, he sat up and glared. “You’re a sweet pal,” he said. “Can’t you let me snatch some sleep?”

  “Aw, forget it, Mo,” I said. “Sit down, I wantta talk to you.”

  Ackie rubbed his face hard with his hand, pushing his rubbery nose to the most extraordinary angles.

  I took out a packet of Camels, gave him one and lit up myself. “What is it, you bum?” he demanded. “I bet you want to pick my brains again.”

  I shook my head. “You ain’t got brains,” I said. “You just think you have.”

  Ackie shut his eyes. “They fixed Vessi to-night,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said, surprised.

  “What made you turn up?” he asked, without opening his eyes.

  “How the hell did you know I turned up?” I demanded.

  When Ackie smiled he looked horrible. I shifted my eyes. “Not much I don’t hear,” he said. “What made you turn up?”

  “Listen, Mo,” I said patiently; “I came here to ask you somethin’, not you to ask me.”

  He lifted one hooded lid and squinted at me. “Why the interest, brother? Somethin’ hangin’ to it?”

  These news-hawks were all the same. I dragged down some smoke and held it for a second, then let it drift down my nostrils. “I don’t think Vessi did it,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  Ackie groaned and shut his eye. “He’s dead now, ain’t he?

  “This guy Richmond,” I said, selecting my words, “I guess he had more enemies than Vessi?”

  “Yeah, he’d more enemies than most guys. Richmond was a heel. He had it comin’ to him.”

  “There was a woman hangin’ to the killin’, wasn’t there? They never turned her up.”

  Ackie lifted his shoulders. “There were hundreds of women,” he said indifferently. “That guy had women in his hair all day long.”

  “Who was she?” I asked softly.

  Ackie raised his head. “Nothin’ doin’,” he said. “Richmond’s dead an’ Vessi’s dead; both those guys were rats. It’s washed up… forget it.”