1949 - You're Lonely When You Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  I was still sure that the key to the whole business was the reasons why Dana was shot and why the diamond necklace had been left in her apartment. But I couldn’t see any way of finding the explanations of those two reasons. As far as I could see the hunt was narrowed down to Thayler or maybe Bannister. Thayler was the most likely suspect. I couldn’t see why Bannister should have shot Dana unless he had been bribed to do so by the promise of the necklace, and when he didn’t get it he had squared accounts by shooting Anita. I didn’t like this theory much, but decided it might be worthwhile to give it a little more thought. I didn’t think it was possible for Natalie to have shot Dana. She had no motive for one thing, and she wouldn’t be able to handle a .45 for another.

  I went on like this, turning the facts over in my mind, trying to make them fit into the jigsaw, and getting nowhere until I pulled up outside my cabin.

  It was quite a change to find the place in darkness. I turned on the light after unlocking the front door and walked heavily into the sitting room. The clock on the mantel showed one-fifteen. I was tired enough to go to bed with my clothes on.

  As I walked into my bedroom the telephone began to ring.

  In the quiet of the night the bell sounded loud and hysterical. Cursing softly I sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the receiver.

  It was Pat Finnegan, and he sounded excited.

  ‘I’ve found him, Mr. Malloy,’ he said. ‘He’s holed up with Joe Betillo, and he’s there right now.’

  I stiffened to attention.

  ‘You mean Thayler?’

  ‘Yeah. Do you want me to come over?’

  ‘You go to bed,’ I said, and patted my pillow regretfully.

  ‘This is something I can handle on my own. Thanks for the tip, Pat.’

  ‘Now wait a minute, Mr. Malloy. You can’t go out there alone,’ Finnegan said excitedly. ‘Betillo’s a mean guy to monkey with. You want to be careful of him.’

  ‘Forget it, Pat,’ I said. ‘Do me a favour, will you? Call Frisco and tell Kerman to come back by the first plane. Tell him where Thayler is.’ I gave Mike the telephone number of Kerman’s hotel. ‘You leave Joe and Thayler to me.’

  ‘But, look, Joe’s a mean guy . . . ‘ Finnegan began, but I cut him short.

  ‘So am I. Go to bed and so long,’ and I dropped the receiver back on its cradle, gave my pillow one more regretful pat and went out to the car again.

  chapter nine

  I

  I knew Joe Betillo well by sight and reputation. He was a mortician and embalmer, coffin maker, abortionist and fixer of knife and bullet wounds with no questions asked, and owned a double-fronted shop in Coral Gables, the Dead-End district of Orchid City. The shop was at the far end of a cul-de-sac alley alongside Delmonico’s bar, which dominated the waterfront and faced the harbour.

  Coral Gables, the farthest extension west of Orchid City, was a shack town that had grown up around the natural deep-water harbour where an industry of sponge and fish docks, turtle crawls and markets provided a living for the tough boys of the district. It was a tough spot where cops patrolled in twos, and a night seldom passed without someone getting a knife in his hide or his head broken by a beer bottle.

  As I parked the car in the shadows, a few yards from the brightly lit entrance of Delmonico’s bar, the clock on the dashboard showed one-forty-five. A mechanical piano was going: thumping out tinny jazz. The waterfront was deserted. Even for Coral Gables, one-forty-five a.m. was bedtime.

  I got out of the car and walked to the mouth of the alley leading to Betillo’s place. I could see through the bar windows a few stragglers lounging up at the bar, and a couple of girls in halters and shorts sitting at a table by the door, looking with exhausted eyes at the lights shining on the oily water in the harbour.

  Keeping in the shadows I moved quietly down the alley that was as dark as a homburg hat and smelt of stale whisky, cats and rotting fish. I turned a sharp corner in the alley and came upon Betillo’s shop: a two-storeyed job made from salvaged lumber, bleached white by the sun and the wind, shabby and uncared for, and in total darkness. There was a five-foot fence adjoining the building, and after a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, I caught hold of the top of the fence and swung myself over.

  I landed in a big yard full of timber, sawdust and wood shavings. Splashes of moonlight, broken by neighbouring roofs, provided light and shadows, and I hadn’t much fear I would be seen if anyone looked out of the windows.

  I sneaked across the yard, keeping in the shadows, on the lookout for a window. I found one at the rear of the building within easy reach and fastened only by an inside slip catch. I levered the catch back, forced the blade of my knife between the sill and the frame and raised the window. It went up without noise. I took my time, pushing it up inch by inch until I had space enough to crawl through. I flicked on my flashlight to see where I was going. The round, bright beam lit up an unfurnished room, its floor covered with wood shavings and sawdust. I swung my leg over the sill and climbed quietly into the room.

  A door by the window gave on to a passage, and at the end of the passage was a flight of stairs, and facing the stairs was another door. I took all this in with one brief glance and a flash or two of my light.

  Before I moved out of the shelter of the room I was in I turned off my flashlight and stood listening. The shop and the apartment above was as quiet and as dark as a coal mine on a Sunday. I crept down the passage; using the light only when I had to, pushed open the door facing the stairs and peered into what seemed a big room, the far side of it stacked high with coffins. The first thing I noticed was the sweet sharp smell of formaldehyde, the stuff you pickle corpses in.

  I slid into the room, closed the door and swung the beam of my light around the walls. There were about three dozen coffins stacked against the wall facing me: cheap, pinewood jobs that looked as if they had been knocked together in a hurry. Along the wall on my right were three better class ones: one a real humdinger in black ebony with silver handles. In the centre of the room was another even more gaudy effort in walnut with gold handles. In another corner of the room was a long marble slab with a deep sink close by where I guessed Betillo tidied up his corpses.

  I poked around, lifting coffin lids, peering here and there, and feeling spooked, not knowing what I was looking for, but hoping I’d strike something. Eventually I did.

  I had got around to the stack of coffins against the far wall: the cheap, pine jobs. The second of the three I looked into contained Anita Cerf.

  I was half expecting to find her somewhere in the room, and had tensed my nerves for the shock of seeing that blood-framed face again. But in the hard, bright light of the torch she looked even more horrible than I had imagined. Betillo had embalmed her just as she was: he hadn’t attempted to tidy her up or fill in the hole in her forehead or even wash the blood from her face. The sight gave me a turn, and before I could control my jumping nerves, I dropped the coffin lid with a crash that sounded like a thunderclap in my ears.

  I stood listening, my heart hammering and my mouth dry.

  Nothing happened. I was suddenly aware that I hadn’t a gun, and if I were caught here it would be easy enough for Betillo to stick a knife into me and sling me into the harbour, or if he didn’t want my body to be found, he could embalm me and keep me in one of his boxes for the next twenty years.

  The thought made me sweat, and I decided to get out quick and watch the joint from the alley until Kerman arrived with his gun.

  As soon as I made this decision I couldn’t get out of the place fast enough. I tiptoed to the door. As I put my hand on the doorknob I felt it turn in my grasp. That sent my blood pressure up and my heart into my mouth. Someone out in the passage was coming in!

  I snapped off my light, took three quick, silent steps back, away from the door, and waited. The room was now pitch dark, and the close, suffocating smell of the formaldehyde bothered me. I listened, holding my br
eath, peering into the darkness, waiting for something to happen.

  There was a long, ghastly silence. The only sound I could hear was the dull thumping of my heart and the faint whisper of my controlled breathing. Then a board creaked close to me. Whoever it was who had come into the room must have had eyes like a cat. He was coming straight at me as if he could see me. The first warning I had of his nearness was a sudden increase of darkness as his form loomed up, and then before I could dodge, a pair of cold, hard hands shot out of the darkness and grabbed at my throat.

  For a second or so I stood motionless, unable to do anything; fear, panic, cold feet, whatever you like to call it, paralysing me. Fingers dug into my neck, two thumbs sank into my windpipe. It was a savage, murderous grip that cut the air from my lungs and the blood from my head.

  I controlled the instinctive urge to grab at my assailant’s wrists. From his grip he had wrists like steel, and I should be wasting precious time trying to break his hold, and I hadn’t a lot of time to waste. Already my head was feeling woozy and my lungs were yelling for air. I reached out and touched his chest gently, measuring the distance, then slammed in a right with everything I had. My fist sank into the arch of his ribs; his breath came out with a gurgling rush. The grip loosened on my throat, but before he could back away I uncorked another right to his body that sent him reeling into the darkness.

  I touched the button on my flashlight. The beam hit Betillo as he came in a staggering rush towards me. His broad, flattish face was vicious with pain and animal fury. I ducked under a right swing that would have taken my head off if it had landed, dropped the flashlight and hit him on the side of his neck with a thump that sounded like a meat axe cutting into a side of beef. He lost balance and fell. I didn’t give him a chance to recover, and jumped him, landing with both feet on his chest, driving the wind out of him and crushing him flat. I sprawled on the floor beside him but he was fixed all right. I shoved away from him and got to my feet, snatching up the flashlight to look at him. He lay flat on his back, his body and legs squirming and thrashing as he tried to drag air into his flattened chest.

  Leaning over him I grabbed hold of his long, oily hair and slammed his head on the floor. The thump shook the room.

  His eyes rolled back and he went limp.

  The whole affair had taken about a half a minute of anima, furious fighting. Panting, I bent over him, making sure he was out. From the look of him he wouldn’t come round for hours, if he ever came round at all. I pulled open his coat, hoping to find a gun on him, but he wasn’t carrying one. I straightened, picked up my flashlight, wondering why Thayler hadn’t appeared on the scene. We had made enough noise to awaken the dead.

  I went to the door, opened it and looked out into darkness.

  As I stepped into the passage the silence was suddenly broken by the choked bang of a gun. I ducked down, thinking someone was firing at me. Then three more shots went off, crashing through the house, deafening me Whoever it was shooting wasn’t firing at me. There was no gunflash although the noise sounded close.

  I crouched close to the wall, sweating and listening. I heard a door slam. Footsteps ran along a passage upstairs and another door slammed. Then silence.

  II

  I wasn’t anxious to go up the stairs. I had no idea what I was going to run into, and without a gun, I felt as defenceless as a snail without its shell. But it did occur to me that someone up there was getting killed, and maybe I should see if I could do anything about it; making a mental note to get my head examined when and if I got out of this jam.

  I went up the stairs on hands and knees. Halfway up a cloud of gunsmoke drifted down to meet me. I kept on, making no noise, being as quick as I could without being reckless.

  At the head of the stairs I took a chance and turned on my flashlight. I faced a short passage. Near where I crouched a door stood open, and in the light of the flash, gunsmoke drifted lazily into the passage.

  No one took a pot shot at me, and I began to hope the guy who had done the shooting had vamoosed. But I still wasn’t taking any chances, and I listened, remaining on hands and knees, and after a moment or so I got used, to the sound of my heartbeats and the blood pounding in my ears and picked up another sound: the sound of breathing coming from the room where the shooting had been. At least I thought it was breathing, although it sounded more like a pair of bellows with a hole in them trying to operate, and then another sound came to me that sent a cold chill up my spine: the steady drip-drip-drip of water or something falling on the floor.

  I stood up, braced myself and went to the door. The smell of cordite hit me as I entered the room. The breathing sound I had heard turned to a gasp and a rattle that made my hair stand on end. I flicked on the flashlight. The beam hit a scene I dream “about even now. One quick look brought my hand groping for the light switch; a moment later the room was flooded with harsh, white light.

  The room was small, and the bed faced me. On the bed was a man wearing only pyjama trousers. From the waist up he was naked. Two big, .45 slug wounds decorated the middle of his white, hairy chest, and blood ran down his ribs in a shiny, maroon-coloured stream. A third slug had ripped open h’s jugular, and blood spurted from the wound in a terrifying scarlet jet, hitting the near wall and dripping on to the floor.

  It took me a second or so to recognize the man on the bed.

  The blood-smeared, ghastly coloured face looked like something someone had cooked up for a horror show in a wax-work exhibition. But it was Thayler all right It couldn’t be anyone else but Thayler.

  There was nothing I could do for him. It was a miracle he was still alive. Even if I could have sealed the artery I couldn’t do anything about the holes in his chest.

  He lay very still and stared at me; his slate-grey eyes unafraid; life going out of him, splashing on the wall and dripping on to the floor.

  ‘Who did it?’ I asked, leaning over the bedrail. ‘Come on, you can still talk. Who did it?’

  Even though he was going fast and his lungs were drowning in blood he tried to speak. His mouth moved, his jaw twitched, but that was as far as he got. But he did manage to convey something to me. Slowly, and with an effort that mingled sweat with his blood, he lifted his hand and pointed.

  I followed the direction of the pointing finger and found myself looking at a cupboard.

  ‘Something in there?’ I said, stepped round the bed and jerked open the cupboard. There wasn’t much in it: a suit of clothes, a hat and a small suitcase. I looked over my shoulder at him. The grey eyes held mine, willing me to understand what he was trying to say.

  ‘In the suit?’ I asked, pulling out the suit from the cupboard.

  The finger continued to point. I tossed out the hat and the suitcase and looked at him again. Still the finger continued to point at the cupboard which was, as far as I could see, now empty.

  ‘Hidden in there?’ I asked.

  The eyes said yes, the hand dropped. The breathing was very slow and laboured. Red-tinged air-bubbles came through the two holes in his chest.

  I turned back to the cupboard, shone the beam of my flash at the flooring and back panel, but could see nothing except dust and bits of fluff.

  I took out my knife, opened the heaviest blade and began prising up the floorboards in the cupboard. As I worked I became aware that the laboured, wheezing breathing had stopped. I glanced over my shoulder. The face on the blood-soaked pillow had turned the colour of clay, the lean, heavy jaw sagged. The finger still pointed to the cupboard and the dead, blank eyes looked directly at me.

  I levered up one of the floorboards and flashed the torch beam into the cavity. There was nothing bat dirt, a spider or two and the signs that a rat had once lived there. I straightened up, scowled at the cupboard, knowing I should get out, but certain Thayler had meant me to find something in there; something that might be the key to the whole of this mad, murderous business.

  There was a cane-bottomed chair close by and I j
erked it before the cupboard and stood on it so the upper shelf of the cupboard was level with my face. A panel of wood formed the back of the shelf, and I got my knife-blade under it and began to lever it out. It resisted my efforts, but I kept at it, feeling the blade bend under the leverage, careful not to put too much pressure on it, but making the pressure even and continuous. I had the panel on the move when I heard a faint noise that could have been the scraping of a boot on bare boards. Stepping down from the chair I sneaked to the door and listened. Hearing nothing I snapped off the overhead light, opened the door, and peeled into the dark passage. My heart was banging against my ribs, and I felt it miss a beat when I saw a flash of light on the wall by the foot of the stairs.

  I crept out of the room and peered over the banisters.

  Someone was moving about in the passage below. Then another torch flashed on, and I caught a glimpse of a cop standing at the foot of the stairs looking up into the darkness.

  ‘Must be upstairs, Jack,’ a voice murmured. ‘No one around here.’

  I didn’t wait to see or hear more, but went quickly and silently back into the room of death, shut the door softly and turned on the light again. There was a good strong bolt on the door and I pushed it home. I had about two minutes to find what I was looking for, and I returned to the cupboard, got my fingers in the gap I had made in the panel and heaved at it with all my strength. It moved, the nails coming away with a sharp, creaking sound. I heaved again, and the panel came away in my hand. I shone the torch into the cavity. Two things met my eyes: a Colt .45 automatic pistol equipped with what appeared to be a miniature telescopic sight and a leather-bound notebook I grabbed them up as a rap came on the door.