1949 - You're Lonely When You Dead

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘There’s not much more to it. You can more or less guess the rest. Lee got into touch with Cerf and told him to start paying unless he wanted Anita’s body and the gun turned over to the police. Lee asked half a million to begin with, and the money was to be paid at once.’

  ‘And you’re going to tell me Cerf had, by now, the answer to blackmail,’ I said. ‘He went along tonight to Betillo’s and wiped Thayler out, is that it?’

  She nodded and looked away.

  ‘I warned him Cerf was dangerous,’ she said, her voice suddenly stifled. She put her hand to her eyes. ‘But he was so sure of himself. He laughed at me.’

  I got up suddenly, and without a word, walked quickly into her bedroom. I was in there less than ten seconds before she came to the bedroom door to stare at me.

  ‘What do you want in here?’ she asked sharply.

  I looked around the room, ran my fingers through my hair, shook my head.

  “You know, baby, my nerves must be bad. I could have sworn I heard someone in here. Didn’t you hear a footfall? A sound as if someone was creeping across the floor?’

  Her eyes opened a trifle, and she looked a little nervously round the room. I jerked the window curtains aside. No one lurked behind them. I glanced out into the darkness. Rain splashed on the windows.

  ‘You’re trying to frighten me,’ she said, her voice shooting up two tones.

  ‘Only you and I know Cerf s the killer,’ I said, going to her and looking down into her big green eyes. ‘And neither of us believe it do we?’

  Her slim white hand rested on my sleeve.

  ‘It’s hard to believe,’ she said. ‘If Lee hadn’t told me I wouldn’t have believed it.’

  ‘Lee telling you doesn’t make me believe it,’ I said, and smiled at her. ‘I don’t kid myself I’m much of a detective, but take a look around. Look at the bed. You haven’t slept in it tonight. Why, the coverlet isn’t even off. Look over there where you’ve thrown the clothes you stripped off just before I tapped on the window.’ I lifted a shoe, held it out to her.

  ‘You hit him in the neck artery and he bled like hell. I guessed you’d have a little blood on you somewhere. Well, here it is on the side of your shoe.’

  She touched her lips with the tip of her tongue.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said crossly, and walked into the sitting room.

  I followed her, swinging the shoe in my hand.

  ‘Don’t you?’ I said. ‘It’s plain enough to me. Substitute in your clever little story Gail Bolus for Jay Franklin Cerf and we shall be getting somewhere. It was you who shot Dana, thinking she was Anita. You who shot Leadbetter, who saw you strip Dana and threatened to expose you. You who shot Anita because you hated her and were determined to square accounts because she stole Thayler from you, and it was you who went round to Betillo’s tonight and shot Thayler because—’ I paused, then asked, ‘You tell me: why did you kill Thayler?’

  IV

  From the kitchenette there came the whirring grunt of the refrigerator. From the overmantel came the steady tick-tick-tick of the squat, oak-framed clock.

  Miss Bolus breathed steadily; her breasts rose and fell under the thin silk wrap lightly and evenly and without emotion. Her hand was steady as she poured more coffee into her cup. She added sugar, stirred the coffee with the spoon. There was a vague, faraway expression on her face.

  She said, ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Up to now it’s been a beautiful act,’ I said, and sat opposite her, my hand near my hat. “Don’t let it turn corny, baby. The tears, the spontaneous story about Cerf, the calm way you followed me into the bedroom, knowing I’d see your bed hadn’t been slept in were all admirably done: so don’t let’s spoil it. Why did you kill Thayler?’

  She looked at me then; her eyes very thoughtful.

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ she said steadily. ‘I loved him. It was Cerf. I told you.’

  ‘I know what you told me, but unfortunately for you your old friend Thayler kept a diary. He made me a present of it before he died. I’ve read it, and what’s in it doesn’t hook up with what you’ve told me. He said Anita was scared of you, and she knew you were gunning for her. That’s why I came here. That’s why I looked your room over. I knew you had only just got back from Coral Gables. I wanted to check up to see if you had been in bed, and with all that blood around I knew you would have taken some of it away with you if you had been there.’ I touched the shoe that stood on the table. ‘Why did you kill him?’

  She looked at me for a long moment of time, then laughed. It was a tinny, humourless sound.

  ‘So the bastard kept a diary,’ she said. ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘Yeah, diaries have an unpleasant habit of coming home to roost,’ I said.

  She sipped her coffee, made a little grimace and set the cup on the table.

  ‘It’s cold,’ she said.

  ‘Look, let’s not beat about the bush or whatever it is one beats,’ I said a little tersely. ‘Tell me about Thayler.’

  ‘Well, the heel had it coming, and the opportunity was too good to miss. I was getting away with the other shootings, why not one more?’ she said carelessly. ‘I’m sorry about Dana,’ she went on. ‘If you had seen her out there in die shadows and the moonlight, dressed in Anita’s evening gown, you would have made the same mistake.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It’s too bad about Dana. I think I would fold my tent and silently steal away if it wasn’t for Dana. The others you plugged were a worthless lot. Dana wasn’t. I can’t let you get away with Dana’s killing.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘There’s not much you can do about it,’ she said.

  ‘Well, there is,’ I told her. ‘There are two things I can do, I can take the law into my own hands or I can go to the police. I don’t feel like wringing your nice white neck. It’s a pity because it would save a lot of complications, but I have to live with my conscience, and my conscience wouldn’t like me to do that sort of thing. So it’ll have to be the police. It’ll mean I’ll probably get a few years as an accessory, but that can’t be helped.’

  ‘Cerf won’t like it,’ she reminded me, frowning.

  ‘That’s right, but he’s had it all his own way up to now. He’ll have to put up with it. Would you care to slip on some clothes before I phone Brandon? He’d probably haul you off to the station as you are, so you’d better dress.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be kidding?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Not this time, baby. I’m past kidding You haven’t a lot to worry about. With your looks you’ll probably only get fifteen years.’

  ‘If that’s the way you feel about it,’ she said, and lifted her elegant shoulders. ‘Then I’d better change.’ She picked up her coffee-cup. ‘Could I have a little whisky in this? You may not believe it but I feel a little sick.’

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  ‘Help yourself,’ I said.

  She threw the cup at me. I was half-expecting it, but she moved a shade faster than I thought it possible for anyone to move. By the time I had dashed the coffee out of my eyes she had the .45.

  ‘I asked for that,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘I should have remembered you once did this kind of thing for a living.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and her eyes lit up so they looked like emeralds. ‘Get in there, and don’t ‘try anything funny. I’m as good a shot as ever Lee was, and I couldn’t miss you if I tried.’

  I backed into her bedroom.

  ‘Over there by the wall and face the wall,’ she ordered.

  ‘One move out of you and you’ll get it. I’m going to change.’

  She had picked the wrong spot for there was a dressing table close by and I could see her in the mirror. But that didn’t help me much. I was about six yards from her and the bed was between us. She had wiped out four people already; one more couldn’t make much difference to her dream
s; if she had dreams, and I was beginning to doubt she had.

  ‘This scene has gone a little sour,’ I said, for something to say. ‘The detective always gets his girl. If you shoot me the story will have an immoral ending.’

  She laughed.

  ‘I like immoral stories. Did you leave your car outside?’

  ‘Sure. Shall I give you the ignition key?’

  She sat on a chair and pulled on stockings. The gun lay on the window ledge within easy reach. If it hadn’t been for the bed I would have taken a chance, but the bed made it very difficult.

  ‘I’ll get it later,’ she said. ‘Don’t move.’

  She got up and began hunting through the drawers of her wardrobe. She held the gun in one hand now.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ I asked her.

  ‘New York. Thanks to you the police will never even suspect me. I hope to make a new start in New York. A girl with my looks doesn’t have to worry a great deal. I think I told you that before.’

  ‘So you did.’ I was aware that I was beginning to sweat.

  Maybe it was turning warmer or I was turning yellow. It was not the kind of thing I cared to analyse in a situation like this.

  She found a green silk vest, stepped into it and pulled it up over her hips under her nightdress. The time for act on would be when she pulled the nightdress over her head. I screwed up my nerves and tensed my muscles. She didn’t pull the nightdress over her head, but let it slip off her shoulders and stepped out of it. It was suicide, but better than being shot down in cold blood.

  As she was on one leg, stepping out of the nightdress, I swung round, flung myself across the bed towards her, my heart in my mouth, and scared as stiff as a board.

  She never blinked an eyelid, and stood still, a lovely little half-naked figure, her neatly made-up lips curved in a smile.

  The barrel of the .45, looking as big as the top of a beer tankard, shifted to cover me. I saw her finger turn white on the trigger. I scrambled madly towards her, throwing out my hands, but I was miles and miles away from her and hours and hours too late. The automatic burst into one continuous roar: the gunflash scorched my face. The first slug missed me, so did the second and third. By that time I had reached her and smashed the gun out of her hand. Then I came to an abrupt stop. She was down on the floor, a look of terror fixed on her face, her eyes open and blank, her mouth twisted out of shape and the front of her chest smashed in. Blood welled out of the hole in the centre of her chest, big enough to hold a baseball. I stood staring stupidly, not understanding, seeing her eyes roll back and set, and her hand flop heavily on the carpet.

  Slowly I turned to look at the gun lying by her side.

  Smoke curled out of the telescopic sight. It took me a few moments to understand what that meant: it was a trick gun: a gun that killed the killer; a gun that fired backwards.

  Thayler’s last little joke. His gift to me, and the joke had turned sour.

  I drew away from the stream of blood that filtered through the complicated pattern of the rug. The place was sound proof, and it was unlikely anyone had heard the shots, but I couldn’t afford to take any chances. I stepped into the sitting room, picked up my coffee-cup and saucer and the empty whisky glass and my hat. There were a couple of my cigarette-stubs to collect too. I looked around the room, trying to remember if I had touched anything. I wiped the surface of the table over with my handkerchief just to be on the safe side. Then I turned out the light, opened the casement door and looked into the half-light of the dawn. There was no one in sight. Rain fell steadily.

  I went towards my car at a steady run.