Tell It to the Birds

by James Hadley Chase

A hundred bucks! Anson thought bitterly. She thought that was being in trouble! What would the silly mare do if she owed eight thousand bucks!

  “What do you expect me to do about it?” he said, staring at her. “There’s more than a hundred bucks walking Main Street. Go out there and earn it.”

  She looked sharply at him, her green-blue eyes hardening.

  “That’s a nice thing to say, Sweetie!” she said. “I didn’t expect that from you. I’m your girl friend… remember?”

  He had a sudden urgent desire to be rid of her. If he had had the courage, he would have shoved her cut into the corridor and locked the bedroom door, but he was scared she might make a scene. Looking at her, he was horrified with himself for ever having associated with her. Meg now made all his women shabby and sordid.

  He went over to his wallet and look out six ten dollar bills.

  “Fay… I’m sorry. I’m not well. It’s something I’ve eaten,” he said. “Here take this… it’s the best I can do. Let’s skip tonight. I want to go to bed.”

  She stared at the bills in his hand, then she looked at him, her eyes quizzing.

  “Can’t you run to a hundred?” she asked. “I tell you I’m in trouble.”

  He dropped the bills into her lap.

  “Trouble? That’s a joke. I’m in trouble too. Be a good girl… run along. I’m not well.”

  She put the bills into her shabby handbag and stood up.

  “Okay, Sweetie, see you next week.”

  He went with her to the door. She paused and looked intently at him.

  “Want to change your mind?” She put her hand on him, but he moved quickly back. “Well, okay, if you’re as ill as all that… See you,” and she went out into the corridor.

  The rest of the evening Anson spent lying on his bed, his thoughts of Meg Barlowe burning holes in his mind The following day when he wasn’t actually working, he thought about her. His mind still tonnented by her, he left Fru Town for Lambsville where he had a few calls lo make. He got through his calls by half past five He had to pass through Pru Town again to reach the Brent highway, and he had to pass the dirt road that led to the lonely, intriguing Barlowe house.

  As he drove along the highway, he tried to decide whether he dare call on Meg so soon. She had said she would be alone this night: that her husband would be staying in Pru Town. But suppose she really meant that stuff about a plot for a short story? He would look a dope arriving at the house with no ideas for her if he had misunderstood the setup and she hadn’t after all been extending an invitation to him to share her bed.

  He reached the dirt road and pulled up, drawing off the highway onto the grass verge. He sat for some moments, trying to make up his mind what to do.

  I’d better not, he thought to himself. It’s too risky. I could spoil my chance. It shouldn’t be too hard to think up a plot for her and I’ll then have a legitimate excuse for calling on her. She’ll be on her own again next Monday. Between now and Monday, I should be able to dream up something: it doesn’t matter how corny it is, but I can’t barge in there without something to tell her. Reluctantly he started the car engine and drove on to Brent.

  “Have you something on your mind, Mr. Anson?” Anna Garvin asked curiously.

  Anson started, frowned and looked across the office to where Anna sat behind a typewriter. She had been working for him now for the past two years. She was young, fat, cheerful and capable. Apart from wearing heavy hornrimmed glasses which Anson disliked on women, she also had a talent for wearing all the wrong clothes which made her look more homely and fatter than necessary.

  She had interrupted an idea he had been developing: an idea for a story which had to do with an insurance swindle.

  “I’ve spoken to you twice,” Anna went on. “You just sit there as if you were hatching a plot to murder someone.”

  Anson stiffened.

  “Look, Anna, I’m busy. Keep quiet, can’t you?”

  She grimaced, screwing up her good-natured, fat face, then she went on with her typing.

  Anson got to his feet and crossed to the window to stare down at the steady stream of traffic passing along Main Street.

  This was Saturday morning. After lunch he had arranged to play a round of golf with a friend of his, but he now found himself in no mood for golf. He had Meg on his mind so badly he couldn’t concentrate on his work. A dozen or so letters lay on his desk, waiting his attention, but he couldn’t bring himself to bother with them…. as if you were hatching a plot to murder someone.

  And that was exactly what he had been doing: planning a murder for gain, but, of course, only for this story he was working out for Meg Barlowe. Just suppose he had really been planning a murder. Was he so transparent that someone as simple as Anna could read his thoughts?

  He forced himself to his desk.

  “Let’s go,” he said and when Anna picked up her notebook, Anson began to dictate.

  Anson had a one room apartment on the fourth floor of the Albany Arms, a block of apartments near the Brent railroad station. He had lived in this rabbit warren of a place since he had become the Field Agent for the Insurance Corporation.

  Each apartment was provided with a garage which was situated in the basement of the building and approached by a long drive-in from the road.

  Anson had played bad golf, had had an indifferent dinner, but he had had a lot to drink. Now, relaxed from the exercise and slightly drunk, he drove his car down the dimly lit drive-in and expertly swung the car into the stall allotted to him.

  He noticed that most of the other stalls were empty. This was the weekend. There was always a rush to get out of Brent over the weekend, and Anson liked the quiet that prevailed in the apartment block, free from the racket of television, people walking over his head and children screaming and quarrelling in the courtyard.

  He cut the engine, turned off the headlights and got out of the car. As he slammed the car door shut, he became aware that he wasn’t alone. He looked sharply to his right.

  A tall, thick-set man had appeared out of the shadows and was now standing looking at him from the entrance of the stall. His unexpected appearance gave Anson a start. He stared into the gloom, looking towards where the man was standing.

  “Hi, palsy,” the man said in a thick, husky voice. “I’ve been waiting quite a long time for you to show up.”

  Anson’s heart skipped a beat and he felt a cold clutch of fear. He recognized this threatening, massive figure: Sailor Hogan! During the past days his mind had been so obsessed with Meg Barlowe he had entirely forgotten Joe Duncan’s threat. Now he remembered what Duncan had said: You pay up on Saturday. If you don’t, Sailor will be around to talk to you.

  Anson recalled a story he had heard about Sailor Hogan. How he had visited a client of Joe’s who had failed to pay up.

  Sailor had maimed the man. Anson had actually seen the man after Sailor had dealt with him so he knew the story to be no exaggeration. Sailor, so they said, had laced his thick fingers together and had hit the man a frightful chopping blow on the back of his neck. The man was now going around in a wheel chair, looking and acting like an idiot. When the police had tried to pin the assault onto Sailor, he proved with the help of five bookmakers that he was playing poker with them in Lambsville at the time the assault had taken place.

  And now here was Sailor Hogan walking slowly and deliberately towards Anson who backed away. It wasn’t until he felt his heels grinding against the concrete wall that Anson came to a standstill. By now, Sailor was within four feet of him. Sailor paused, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets, his shapeless hat cocked over one eye, a cigarette dangling from his thick, moist lips.

  “I’ve come to collect, palsy,” he said. “Let’s have it.”

  Anson drew in a quick uneven breath.

  “Tell Joe he’ll have it on Monday,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “Joe said for me to collect it now or else…” Sailor said and took big, knuckly fists out of his
pockets. “Come on, Palsy, I want to get home.”

  Anson felt the cold concrete wall pressing against his shoulders. He could retreat no further. He thought of the man in the wheel chair.

  “I’ll have the money on Monday,” he said. “Tell Joe… he’ll understand. I’m expecting…” He broke off as Sailor sidled towards him. Suddenly more frightened than he had ever been before, he said in a high hysterical voice. “No! Keep away from me! No!”

  Sailor grinned at him.

  “Palsy, you’re in trouble. When I’m not working for Joe, I work for Sam Bernstein. You owe him eight grand. Sam doesn’t think you’ll pay him. Okay, you have time, but Sam is worried about you. Joe’s worried about you too. You’d better pay Joe on Monday or I’ll have to work you over.” His small white teeth gleamed in the overhead light as he smiled viciously. “If you don’t raise Sam’s dough, I’ll fix you till you wish you were dead. Understand?”

  “Sure,” Anson said, feeling cold sweat running down his ribs.

  “Okay. You pay Joe on Monday… that’s fixed, huh?”

  It’s going to be all right, Anson thought wildly. I’ve gained two days. Monday night I’ll be with Meg.

  But it wasn’t all right for Sailor moved forward with a quick, shifting movement that left Anson helpless to defend himself.

  Sailor’s hammer-like fist sank into Anson’s stomach with paralysing and awful violence and sent him forward in a jack-knife dive.

  Anson sprawled face down on the oily concrete floor. He heard Sailor say, “Monday, palsy. If you haven’t the dough, then you’re in for a real beating and remember Sam… you don’t pay him and you’re as good as dead.”

  Anson lay still, his hands clutching his stomach, his breath moaning through his clenched teeth. He was dimly aware of the cold ground that chilled his pain wracked body as he listened to the quick footfalls of the ex-light heavy weight champion of California as he walked briskly up the drive-in and out into the darkness of the night.

  Anson lay in bed. The day was Sunday. The time was eleven fifteen a.m. Around his navel where Hogan had sunk his fist the flesh was yellow, green and black. Somehow he had managed to drag himself to the elevator and reach his apartment. He had taken three sleeping tablets and had got into bed. When he woke, the bright morning sunshine was coming around the edges of the blind. He had limped to the bathroom. His guts felt as if they were on fire. At least, he thought, I am not passing blood, but he was frightened. He thought with horror of the next meeting with Hogan if he failed to raise Duncan’s money. His mind moved ahead to next June. He. must have been out of his mind to have borrowed eight thousand dollars from Bernstein. He must have been crazy to have put all that money on that goddamn horse! He felt a cold chill as he thought of the reckoning. He was certain now that he would never be able to raise that sum. He put his hand to his tender aching stomach and he cringed. Hogan would fix him. He knew it. He too would be going around looking like an idiot after Hogan had fixed him.

  He lay there in a mood of frightened, black despair during the next four hours. His mind darted like a trapped mouse, searching for a way of escape.

  There was one thought that kept moving into his mind and which he immediately rejected, but as the hours passed and no other solution presented itself, he finally began to consider the idea.

  Up to this moment he had shied away from any criminal act to make money, but now he realized there was nothing left but to make money dishonestly.

  He thought of Meg Barlowe.

  She has something on her mind, he told himself. That story about an insurance swindle… she knew that junk she called jewellery was worthless. So why did she ask me to call? Why did she tell me her husband would be away for the night on Mondays and Thursdays? This could be my way out… this could be the chance I’m looking for.

  He was still thinking about the idea when he drifted off into an exhausted sleep that took him through the night to Monday morning.

  Anson walked across the vast parking lot of Framley’s store with a slight dragging step. Movement caused him pain. He had to force himself to walk upright.

  He pushed open the swing doors into the bustle of the store. He looked around, then asked one of the elevator attendants where he could find the horticultural department.

  “Basement. Section D,” the girl told him.

  There was a big crowd around the horticultural stand and Anson wasn’t surprised. He recognized the same genius that had created the garden at the Barlowe house. People moved around gaping and exclaiming at the blooms, the perfect floral arrangements, the little fountains and the beautifully arranged banks of cut flowers. There were four girls, wearing green smocks, busy with their order books. Barlowe stood by a desk, a pencil behind his ear, while he watched the girls book orders.

  Barlowe was so unlike the man Anson had imagined him to be that after staring at him for several seconds, he asked one of the girls if it was Mr. Barlowe. When the girl said he was, Anson moved back to the edge of the crowd. He again studied the man who was now selling a rose tree to an elderly couple. How in the world could such a sensational looking woman like Meg have come to marry such a man? Anson asked himself. From his vantage point behind the crowd, Anson studied Barlowe with increasing surprise.

  Barlowe was in his early forties. He had a shock of thick black hair. He was thin and undersized. His eyes were deep set in hollows that were dark ringed. He had a thin, ill-tempered mouth and his nose was pointed and long. Examining him, Anson decided that this little shrimp of a man’s only grace lay in his long, slender and artistic hands: they were beautiful hands, but there was nothing else about him that could win anyone’s favour.

  Anson moved away from the scent of the flowers, suddenly very confident that he had no serious competition to fear.

  He even forgot the nagging soreness of his stomach as he passed the parking lot towards his car. He had three prospects to call on. The time was now twenty minutes to four. He should be free to. visit Meg by seven o’clock.

  On his way to his car, he paused by a row of telephone booths. It took him only a few minutes to find Barlowe’s telephone number. He dialled the number.

  Meg answered the call. The sound of her voice made him feel breathless.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Barlowe,” he said, forcing his voice to sound brisk. “This is John Anson.”

  There was a pause, then she said, “Who?”

  He felt a moment of irritation. Didn’t she even remember his name?

  “John Anson: National Fidelity Insurance. You remember me?”

  She said at once, “Why, of course. I’m sorry. I was trying to write… my mind was miles away.”

  “I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

  “Oh, no. I was thinking of you. I was wondering if you had an idea for me.”

  He was tempted to tell her that he had spent the whole of yesterday thinking of her.

  “That’s why I am telephoning… I do have an idea. I was wondering…” He let it hang, feeling his hand turn moist as he gripped the telephone receiver.

  “Yes?” There was a pause as he still said nothing, then she went on, “I suppose you’re not free this evening?”

  Anson drew in a deep breath.

  “I’m in Pru Town right now. I have a few calls to make, but I could drop by around seven o’clock if that would be convenient?”

  “Well, why not?” Her voice went up a note. “Come to supper. There won’t be much but I hate eating alone.”

  Anson was suddenly worried that she might hear the violent beating of his heart.

  “Fine… then, around seven,” and with an unsteady hand, he put the receiver back onto its cradle.

  She was sophisticated, sun-tanned and very sure of herself. She wore a sky blue shirt and close fitting white slacks. She paused before Barlowe and stared at him the way you stare at a sudden coffee stain on your best table cloth. “Mary Wheatcroft,” she said. “Is it too early to plant?” Barlowe felt a tightening in his chest at the
sight of this woman.

  “Yes… a little early, but I can take an order. We will deliver and plant when…”

  Her sapphire blue eyes flicked over him indifferently,

  “I want two dozen. It’s Mrs. Van Hertz. I have an account with you… arrange it for me,” and she moved away, her hips rolling under the white material of her slacks.

  Barlowe watched her go.

  One of the assistants said sharply, “Mr. Barlowe… you have cut yourself!”

  Barlowe looked at the blood dripping from his fingers. His grip had unconsciously tightened on the pruning knife he was holding.

  His pale brown eyes shifted once again to Mrs. Van Hertz’s arrogant back. He lifted his hand and licked the warm blood from bis fingers.

  CHAPTER 3

  As Anson reached the top of the dirt road, he saw the double gates leading to the Barlowe house were open and so too were the doors of the garage. Taking the hint, he drove his car into the garage, got out, shut the garage doors and then walked back and shut the double gates.

  A light was on in the sitting-room. As he walked to the front door, he saw Meg’s shadow pass the blind as she crossed the room, to let him in.

  She opened the door and for a moment they stood looking at each other.

  “You’re very punctual,” she said. “Come on in.”

  He followed her into the sitting-room.

  In the shaded lamp light, as he took off his overcoat, they again looked at each other. She was wearing a flame coloured dress with a wide, pleated skirt. She was even more sensational looking than when he had first met her.

  “Let’s eat, shall we?” she said, “Then we can talk, I don’t know about you but I’m starving. I’ve been working all day and haven’t bothered to eat since breakfast.”

  “Sure, I’d like to,” he said, aware that he had no appetite.

  “How’s the work going?”

  “Oh, so… so.” She waved towards the table. She had pushed aside her typewriter and her papers and had set two plates on which lay some cold cuts of beef and pickles. The cutlery was dumped anyhow. There was a bottle of whisky, ice and charge water at hand. “It’s a bit of a picnic. I’m no cook.”