Lay Her Among the Lilies vm-2

by James Hadley Chase

  “That the lot?” Kerman nodded.

  Briefly I told him of my call on Eudora Drew, how Big Boy had arrived, of the murder and my interview with Brandon. He sat listening, his eyes growing rounder and rounder, his drink forgotten.

  “For the love of Pete!” he exploded when I had finished. “Some evening! So what happens? Do we quit?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, pouring myself another drink. “We’ll have to return the money. To do that we’ll have to find out who takes care of the estate. It’s a certain bet Maureen doesn’t. She must have lawyers or some representative who takes care of her affairs. Maybe we can find that out from Crosby’s will. I want to have a look at Janet’s will, too. I want to find out if she left Eudora any money. If she didn’t, where was Eudora’s money coming from? I’m not saying we’re not going on with this; I’m not saying we are. We’ll get a few more facts, and then decide. We’ll have to be very careful how we step. Brandon could make things difficult.”

  “If we return the money the case should be closed,” Paula said. “There’s no point in working for nothing.”

  “I know,” I said. “All the same this set-up interests me. And, besides, I don’t like taking orders from Brandon.” I finished my drink and pushed back my chair. “Well, I guess we’d better break this up. I could do with some sleep.”

  Kerman stretched, yawned and stood up.

  “I’ve just remembered I have to take the Hofflin kids to Hollywood tomorrow morning,” he said, grimacing. “A personally-conducted tour of Paramount Studios. If it wasn’t for the chance of seeing Dot Lamour I’d be fit to climb a tree. Those three brats terrify me.”

  “Okay,” he said. “You’ll be back the day after tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. If I’m still in one piece.”

  “I’ll have made up my mind by then what we’re going to do. If we do go ahead, we’ll have to put in some fast, smooth work. Hang on a moment. I want a word with Mike.”

  I went over to the bar where Finnegan was lazily polishing glasses. An old roué and his blonde were just leaving. The blonde looked at me from under spiked eyelashes and winked. I winked back.

  When they were out of ear-shot, I said, “There’s a guy who’s been tailing me, Mike. Big, built like a boxer; squashed ear and nose, wears a fawn-coloured hat with a cord around it. Smokes a cheroot and looks tough enough to eat rusty nails. Ever seen him?”

  Mike rubbed the tumbler he was holding, raised it to the light and squinted at it. Then he placed it carefully on the shelf.

  “Sounds like Benny Dwan. It’s a cinch it’s Benny if his breath smells of garlic.”

  “I never got that close. Who’s Benny Dwan?”

  Mike picked up another glass, rinsed it under the tap and began to polish it. He could be annoyingly deliberate when answering questions. He didn’t mean anything by it; it was just his way.

  “He’s a tough torpedo,” he said, squinted at the glass and polished some more. “Got a job up at Salzer’s sanatorium. He was a small-time gambler before he joined up with Salzer. Served a five-year stretch for robbery with violence back in 1938. He’s supposed to have settled down now, but I doubt that.”

  “What’s he doing at Salzer’s sanatorium?” Mike shrugged.

  “Odd jobs: cleans cars, does a bit of gardening, stuff like that.”

  “This is important, Mike. If it is Dwan, he’s up against a murder rap.”

  Mike pursed his thick lips in a soundless whistle.

  “Well, it sounds like him. I’ve seen him in that hat.”

  I went over the description again, in detail and carefully.

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “That sounds like him all right. He’s never without a cheroot and his nose and right ear are flattened. Must be the guy.”

  I felt vaguely excited.

  “Well, thanks, Mike.”

  I went back to the other two who had been watching me from across the room.

  “Mike’s identified Big Boy,” I told them. “He’s a guy named Benny Dwan, and guess what: he works for Salzer.”

  “Isn’t it marvellous how you find things out?” Kerman said, grinning. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Tip Mifflin,” I said. “Wait a second, will you? I’ll call him now.”

  They told me at Police Headquarters that Mifflin had gone home. I turned up his home telephone number in the book and put the call through. After a delay, Mifflin’s voice came over the line. He sounded sleepy and exasperated.

  “This is Malloy,” I told him. “Sorry to wake you up, Tim, but I’m pretty sure I can identify the guy who rubbed out Eudora Drew.”

  “You can?” Mifflin’s voice brightened. “Say, that’s fine. Who is he?”

  “Benny Dwan. And get this, Tim. He works for Salzer. If you go out to the sanatorium right now you might lay your hooks into him.”

  There was a long, heavy silence. I waited, grinning, imagining Mifflin’s expression.

  “Salzer?” he said at last. His voice sounded as if he had a mouth full of hot potatoes.

  “That’s right. Brandon’s little pal.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yeah. Anyway, I’ll identify him for you, and so will Paula. We’d be glad to.”

  “You will?” Indecision and agony crept into his voice.

  “Sure. Of course, Salzer may be annoyed, but apart from Brandon, who cares about Salzer?”

  “Aw, hell!” Mifflin said in disgust. “I’ll have to have a word with Brandon. I’m not stirring up that kind of trouble.”

  “Go ahead and have a word with him. Be sure to tell him I’m phoning the night editor of the Herald with this story. I wouldn’t like Dwan to slip through your fingers because Brandon doesn’t want to upset his little pal.”

  “Don’t do that!” Mifflin yelled. “Listen, Vic, for God’s sake, don’t go monkeying with the press. That’s something Brandon won’t stand for.”

  “Pity, because that’s what I’m going to do. Tell him, and get after Dwan unless you want the press to get after you. So long, Tim,” and while he was still yelling I hung up.

  Paula and Kerman had come over to the phone booth and were listening.

  “Got him in an uproar?” Kerman asked, rubbing his hands.

  “Just a little hysterical. They don’t seem anxious to annoy Salzer.” I dialled, waited, then, when a man’s voice announced, “Herald Offices”, I asked to be put through to the night editor.

  It took me about two minutes to give him the story. He accepted it the way a starving man accepts a five-course lunch.

  “Salzer sort of pampers Brandon,” I explained. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t try to hush this up.”

  “It won’t be my fault if he succeeds,” the night editor said with a ghoulish laugh. “Thanks, Malloy. I’ve been looking for a club to beat that rat with. Leave it to me. I’ll fix him.”

  I hung up and moved out of the booth.

  “Something tells me I’ve started a little trouble,” I said. “If my bet’s right, Brandon won’t have pleasant dreams tonight.”

  “What a shame,” Kerman said.

  III

  Drive North along Orchid Boulevard, past the Santa Rosa Estate, and eventually you will come to a narrow road which leads to the sand dunes and my cabin.

  As a place to live in, it’s nothing to get excited about, but at least it’s out of ear-shot of anyone’s radio, and if I want to yodel in my bath no one cares. It is a four-room bungalow made of Canadian knotty pine with a garden the size of a pocket handkerchief, kept reasonably tidy by Toni, my Filipino boy. A hundred yards from my front door is the blue

  Pacific Ocean, and at the back and to the right and left are scrub bushes, sand and a half-circle of blue palmetto trees. It is as lonely and as quiet as a pauper’s grave, but I like it. I have lived and slept there for more than five years, and I wouldn’t care to live or sleep anywhere else.

  After I had left Finnegan’s bar, I drove along the sandy road, heading f
or home. The time was twenty minutes to midnight. There was a big water-melon moon in the sky, and its fierce white rays lit up the scrub and sand like a searchlight. The sea looked like a black mirror. The air was hot and still. If there had been a blonde within reach it would have been a romantic night.

  Tomorrow, I told myself as I drove along, would be a busy day. Paula had promised to check both Macdonald and Janet Crosby’s wills as soon as County Buildings opened. I wanted to see Nurse Gurney again. I wanted to find out who Maureen Crosby’s lawyer was and have a talk to him. If I could I wanted more information about Douglas Sherrill. If the wills didn’t produce anything of interest, if Maureen’s lawyer was satisfied with the set-up, and if there appeared to be nothing sinister about Douglas Sherrill then I decided I’d hand back the five hundred dollars and consider the case closed. But I was pretty sure at the back of my mind that I wouldn’t close the case, although I was open to be convinced I was wasting my time.

  I pulled up before the pine-wood hut that serves me as a garage, ploughed through hot loose sand to open the doors. I got back into the Buick, drove in, switched off the engine and paused to light a cigarette. As I did so I happened to look into the driving-mirror. A movement in the moonlit bushes caught my eye.

  I flicked out the match and sat very still, watching the clump of bushes in the mirror. It was, at a guess, about fifty yards away, and in direct line with the back of the car. It moved again, the branches bending and shivering, and then became motionless once more.

  There was no wind, no reason why those bushes should move. No bird could be big enough to cause a movement like that, and it seemed to me someone—a man or possibly a woman—was hiding behind them, and had either pushed back the branches to see more clearly, or else had lost balance and had grabbed at the branches to save himself from falling.

  I didn’t like this. People don’t lurk in bushes unless they’re up to no good. In the past Paula had repeatedly told me the cabin was dangerously lonely. In my job I made enemies, and there had been quite a few who had threatened at one time or the other to rub me out. I reached forward and stubbed out my cigarette. This spot was temptingly isolated for anyone with evil intentions. You could have started a miniature war right here without anyone hearing it, and I thought regretfully of the .38 Police special in my wardrobe drawer.

  After I had cut the car engine I had dowsed the headlights, and it was pitch dark in the garage. If whoever was lurking in those bushes planned to start something, the time to do it would be when I stepped out of the garage into the moonlight to shut the doors. As a target in that light and from that distance I couldn’t be missed.

  If I was to surprise the hidden hand I would have to do something fast. The longer I sat in the car, the more alert and suspicious he would become—if it was a he. And if I didn’t buck up he might even start blazing away at the back of the car in the hope a stray slug might find me, always supposing he had a play-pretty, and I fervently hoped he hadn’t.

  I opened the car door and slid out into the darkness. From where I stood I could see the stretch of beach, the thick shrubs, the trees startlingly sharp in the moonlight. It would be a crazy thing to walk out there into that blaze of white light, and I wasn’t going to do it. I stepped back and ran my hands over the rough planks of the rear wall. Some time ago, after I had had a night out with Jack Kerman, I had driven a little too fast into the garage and had very nearly succeeded in driving right through it. I knew some of the planks had never recovered, and the idea now was to force an opening and slide out that way.

  I found a wacky plank and began to work it loose. All the time I was doing this I didn’t take my eyes off that clump of bushes. Nothing moved out there. Whoever was lurking behind the bushes was lying very, very doggo. The plank gave under my pressure. I pushed a little more and then, turning sideways, edged through the opening.

  At the back of the garage there was an expanse of sand, and then bushes. I legged it across the sand and got under cover without making any noise, but losing a considerable amount of breath. It was a little too hot for that kind of exercise, and, panting, I sat down on the sand to figure things out.

  The sensible thing to do would be to creep around to the back of the cabin, keeping out of sight, get in and collect the .38 from my wardrobe drawer. Once I had that I felt I’d be able to cope with anyone looking for trouble. A shot fired from my bedroom window a couple of feet above that clump of bushes would very likely take the starch out of whoever was lurking there.

  The only snag to this idea was that as I hadn’t appeared from the garage the hidden hand might guess I had spotted him and he might be moving in this direction to cut me off. One the other hand he might think I was still in the garage, scared to come out, and was prepared to wait until I did come out.

  I rose slowly to my feet and, keeping my head down, began a quiet creep towards the cabin, sheltering behind the bushes and treading carefully. That was all right so long as the bushes lasted, but ten yards ahead they petered out and started again after a gap of twenty feet or so. That gap looked distressingly bare, and the light of the moon seemed to be pointing directly at it. By now I had left the protecting screen of the garage. The lurker in the clump of bushes couldn’t fail to see me if I crossed that open space. I kept on until I was within a few feet of the gap, and then paused and peered through the scrub. The only consoling thing about this new set-up was I had greatly increased the distance between the clump of bushes and myself. Instead of being fifty yards away, I was now something like a hundred and twenty, and to hit a moving target even as big as me at that distance called for some pretty fancy shooting. I decided to take a chance.

  I took off my hat and, holding it by its brim, sent it sailing into the air towards the clump of bushes in the hope it would distract attention. Then, before the hat settled on the sand, I jumped forward and ran.

  It is one thing to get up speed on firm ground, but quite something else when your feet sink up to your ankles in loose sand. My body went hurtling forward, but my feet remained more or less where they were. If it hadn’t been for the diversion of the hat as it sailed into the moonlight I should have been a dead duck.

  I sprawled on hands and knees, scrambled up somehow, and dived for cover. The still, quiet night was shattered by the bang of a gun. The slug fanned the top of my head as it zipped past like a vicious hornet. That shooting was much too good. I threw myself flat, rolled my legs under me, turned a somersault and was under cover again. The gun banged once more and the slug flung up sand into my face.

  I was now as calm as an old lady with burglars in the house. Sweating and swearing. I plunged on, diving towards thicker cover, shaking the bushes, stamping the sand like a runaway rhinoceros. Again the gun banged, and this time the slug slid along the back of my hand, breaking the skin and burning me as if I had been touched with a red-hot poker. I dropped flat and lay panting, holding my hand, unable to see anything beyond roots and branches and prickly sand-grass.

  If Buffalo Bill out there took it into his head to close in for the kill I would be in a pretty lousy position. I had to keep moving. The cabin still seemed to be a long way away, but there was cover, and, providing I could move without making any noise, I still felt confident I’d get there. I wasn’t going to take any more chances. Whoever it was out there could shoot. At that distance he had nearly bagged me, and that is shooting of a very high order. I wasn’t in a panic, but I was sweating ice, and my heart was banging like a steam-hammer. I began to crawl on hands and knees through the sand, moving as quickly as I could, making no noise. I had gone about fifty feet when I heard a rustle of grass and a sudden snapping of a dry twig. I froze, listening, holding my breath, my nerves creeping like spider’s legs up and down my spine. More grass rustled, followed by a soft, whoosing sound of disturbed sand: close, too damned close. I lowered myself flat, lay hugging the sand, the hair on the back of my neck bristling.

  A few yards away a bush moved, another twig snapped, then silence. He
was right on top of me, and, listening, I imagined I heard him breathing.

  There was nothing for me to do but wait, so I waited. Minutes ticked by. He probably guessed I was right by him and he waited, too, hoping I would make a sound so he could locate me. I was willing to wait like that all night, and, after what seemed to me hours, he again shifted his position, but this time away from me. I still didn’t move. I listened to his footfalls as he moved from bush to bush, searching for me. Very slowly, very cautiously, I came up on hands and knees. Inch by inch I raised my head until I could see through the thinning branches of the scrub bush. Then I saw him. Big Boy! There he was in his fawn hat, his shoulders like a barn door, his flattened nose and ear ugly in the moonlight. He stood about thirty yards from me, a Colt .45 in his fist. He was half-turned away from me, his eyes searching the bushes to my right. If I had had a gun I could have picked him off with no more trouble than shooting a rabbit at the same distance with a shot-gun. But I hadn’t got a gun, and all I could do was to watch him and hope he would go away.

  He remained motionless, tense, his gun arm advanced. Then he turned and faced me and began to move towards me, a little aimlessly as if he wasn’t sure if he was coming in the right direction, but determined to find me.

  I began to sweat again. Ten good paces would bring him right on top of me. I crouched down, listening to his cautious approach, my heart hammering, my breath held behind clenched teeth.

  He stopped within three feet of me. I could see his thick trousered legs through the bush. If I could get his gun.

  He turned his back was towards me. I jumped him. My hands, my brain, my spring were all directed on his gun. Both my hands closed on his thick wrist and my shoulder thudded into his chest, sending him staggering. He gave a startled yelp: a blend of fury and alarm. I bent his wrist, crushed his fingers, clawed at the gun. For a split second I had it all my own way. He was paralysed by the surprise of my spring, by the pain as I squeezed his fingers against the butt of the gun. Then as I had the gun he came into action. His fist slammed into the side of my neck, a chopping blow, hard enough to drive a six-inch nail into oak. I shot into the bushes, still clinging to the gun, trying to get my finger around the trigger, but not making it before his boot kicked the gun out of my hand. It went sailing away into the scrub. Well, that was all right. If I hadn’t got it, he hadn’t either.