Lay Her Among The Lilies

by James Hadley Chase

  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 sp 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.

  He came at me with a shambling rush, tearing his way through the bushes to get at me. But those sand bushes require respect. They don't like being rushed at, and he hadn't taken more than a couple of leaping steps before his toe stubbed against a root and he went sprawling. That gave me time to get to my feet and leg it towards the open. If we had to fight I wasn't going to be hampered by a lot of grass turfs, scrub and bush roots. This guy was a lot heavier than I, and had a punch like the kick of a mule, and I was still dazed from that chop on the neck. I didn't want another. The only satisfactory way to fight him was to have plenty of space to get away and come in again.

  He was up on his feet and after me in split seconds, and he could move. He caught up with me as I broke through the last screen of bushes. I dodged his first rush, socked him on the nose as he came in again and collected a bang on the side of my head that made my teeth rattle.

  The moonlight fell fully on his face as he came in again: a cold, brutal, murderous mask; the face of a man who intends to kill, and nobody or nothing is going to stop him. I jumped away, wheeled back and slugged him on his squashed ear, sending him reeling, and that gave me confidence. He might be big, but he could be hit and he could be hurt. He grunted, crouched, shook his head, his hands moving forward with hooked fingers. I didn't wait for his rush, but went in hitting with both fists. But this time his face wasn't there, and his hands fastened on the front of my coat, pulling me against him.

  I jerked up my knee, but he knew all about that kind of fighting, and had already turned sideways on, taking the hard jab of my knee against his thigh. One of his hands shifted and grabbed at my throat as I slugged him in the ribs. He grunted again, but his fingers, like steel hooks, dug into my windpipe.

  Then I really went for him. I knew once he weakened me I was done for, and that paralysing grip on my throat could sap my strength in seconds if I didn't break his hold. I hammered at his ribs, then, as he still clung on, I dug my fingers into his eyes.

  He gave a sharp screech, let go of my throat and staggered back. I went after him, belting him about the body. He held his eyes and took what I handed out. There was nothing much he could do about it, and I hammered him to his knees. There was no point in breaking my fists on him, so I stepped back and waited for him to uncover. His breath came in short sobbing gasps. He tried to get to his feet, but couldn't make it. Groaning, he dropped his hands to hoist himself up, and that was what I was waitin
g for. I measured him, swung a punch at him that came up from the sand and connected on the point of his jaw. He went over backwards, flopped about, scrabbling in the sand like a wounded squirrel, started climbing to his feet, fell over and straightened out.

  I went over to him. He was out all right, and, looking down at the blood running out of the corners of his eyes, I felt sorry for him. I didn't mean to hurt him as badly as that, but it was his life or mine, and at least I hadn't killed him.

  I leaned forward and pulled the thick leather belt from around his waist, rolled him over and strapped his hands behind him. I took off my belt and lashed it around his ankles.

  He was too heavy to carry and I wanted to get to my phone and my gun. I thought he would be all right until I got back, and I turned and pelted towards the cabin.

  It took me a couple of minutes to wake up Mifflin again. This time he sounded as mad as a hornet you've slapped with a fly-whisk.

  "All right, all right," I said. "I've got Dwan here."

  "Dwan?" Anger went out of his voice. "With you?"

  "Yeah. Come on. Get the boys and the wagon. I want some sleep to-night."

  "Dwan! But Brandon said . . ."

  "To hell with what Brandon said!" I bawled. "Come on out and get him."

  "Keep your shirt on," Mifflin said dismally. "I'm coming."

  As I slammed down the receiver, a gun went off with a choked bang somewhere out on the dunes. I made two quick jumps to my wardrobe, flung open the door and grabbed the .38. I was back at the front door almost before the echo of the shot had died away. I didn't rush out into the moonlight. I stood looking around, just in the shadow of the verandah, seeing nothing, hearing nothing and feeling spooked.

  Then somewhere behind the palmetto trees a car started up and drove away with a rapid change of gears.

  I sneaked down the verandah steps, holding my gun waist high, down the garden path and across the moonlit stretch of sand. The sound of the departing car became fainter and fainter, and finally died away.

  I reached Benny Dwan and stood over him. Someone had shot him in the head, firing very close. The bullet had smashed in the side of his skull and burned his squashed ear with the gun flash.

  He looked very harmless and lonely. He also looked very dead.

  IV

  The little blonde who looked after the PBX in the outer office gave me a coy little smile as I pushed open the frosted panel door on which was inscribed in gold letters: Universal Services, and on the right-hand bottom corner, in smaller letters: Executive Director: Victor Malloy.

  "Good morning, Mr. Malloy," she said, showing her nice white little teeth. She had a snub nose and puppy-dog manners. You felt you had only to pat her for her to wag her tail. A nice kid. Eighteen if she was a day, and only two heart throbs: me and Bing Crosby.

  The two kids sitting behind typewriters, also blondes and also puppies, smiled the way Bobby-soxers smile and also said, "Good morning, Mr. Malloy."

  Mr. Malloy looked his harem over and said it was a swell morning.

  "Miss Bensinger is over at County Buildings. She may be a little late," the PBX blonde told me.

  "Thanks, Trixy. I'll be right in the office. When she comes in tell her I want her."

  She ducked her head and flashed me a look that might have meant something to me if she had been a couple of years older and didn't work for me, and swung around on her stool to take an in-coming call.

  I went into my office and shut the door. My desk clock told me it was five past ten, early for a drink, although I wanted one. After a little hesitation, I decided the bottle wouldn't know it was too early, hoisted it out of the desk drawer and gave myself a small, rather shamefaced nip. Then I sat down, lit a cigarette and pawed over the morning's mail without finding anything to hold my interest. I dropped the lot in the out-tray for Paula's attention, put my feet on the desk and closed my eyes. After the night's excitement I felt a little frayed at the edges.

  A bluebottle fly buzzed sleepily around my head. The two typewriters clacked in the outer office. Trixy played with her plugs. I dozed.

  At twenty minutes to eleven I woke with a start at the sound of Paula's voice in the outer office. I had time to get my feet off the desk and drag my out-tray towards me before she opened the door and came in.

  "There you are," I said as brightly as I could. "Come on in."

  "If you must sleep in the office, will you try not to snore?" she said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. "It's demoralizing the staff."

  "They've been demoralized for years," I said, grinning. "I had about two hours sleep last night. I'm a tired old man this morning, and I must be treated kindly."

  Her cool brown eyes rested on the bruise on my cheekbone, and her eyebrows climbed a half-inch.

  "Trouble?"

  "Well, excitement," and I told her about Benny Dwan's visit.

  "He's dead?" she said, startled. "Who shot him?"

  "I don't know for certain, but I have an idea," I said, hoisting my feet on to the desk. "Ten minutes after my call to Mifflin, the cops arrived, but Mifflin wasn't with them. You remember those two coppers we ran into at Headquarters: the guy with the red hair and the tough-looking one? Well, they turned up. Sergeant MacGraw; that's the red head, and Sergeant Hartsell. A couple of nice, well-behaved, quiet-mannered heels You could wish to avoid any day of the week. They made no bones about how pleased they were to find Dwan dead. Of course that was understandable. His death lets Salzer right out. All he has to do now is to claim Dwan was no longer working for him. Why Dwan stole Salzer's car, knocked off Eudora and tried to knock off me is something for the police to find out. It's my bet they never will find out."

  "You said you had an idea who killed him."

  "Yeah. When those two boys took Dwan away I wandered around and looked for clues. They came in a police car fitted with diamond tread tyres. I found the same pattern in the sand at the back of my cabin. It's my guess they came out early in the evening to keep an eye on me and had a front-row seat for the little show Dwan put on for my benefit, and when I knocked him out and left him tied up the temptation was too much for them. While I was phoning Mifflin, they strolled over to Dwan and silenced him."

  "You mean two police officers . . . ?" Paula began, her eyes growing wide.

  "Look at the trouble it saves," I said. "Put yourself in their place. Here is a guy wanted for murder, who will most certainly talk if he is ever brought to trial. He has probably a lot of things to say about Dr. Salzer that would make interesting reading in the papers. Brandon is a pal of Salzer. What could be more convenient than to put a slug into Dwan's head and save the cost of a trial and inconvenience to Brandon's little pal? Simple, isn't it? I may be wrong, of course, but I doubt it. Anyway, there's not much we can do about it, so let's skip it and get down to something we can do something about. Have you looked up the Crosbys' wills?"

  Paula nodded.

  "Janet didn't make a will. Crosby left three-quarters of his fortune to her and a quarter to Maureen. Obviously Janet was his favourite. If Janet died, Maureen was to have the lot, providing she behaved herself. But if she ever gets mixed up in a scandal and gets herself in the newspapers, the whole fortune is to go to the Orchid City Research Centre, and she is to be paid only one thousand dollars a year. Crosby's trustees are Glynn & Coppley, on the third floor of this building. Half the capital is tied up, the other half Maureen has the free run of, providing, of course, she behaves herself."

  "That's a nice set-up for a blackmailer," I said. "If she has put a foot wrong, and some crook has heard about it, he could shake her down for as much as she's got. It wouldn't be a lot of fun for her to live on a thousand a year, would it?"

  Paula lifted her shoulders.

  "Lots of girls live on less."

  "Sure, but not millionaire's daughters." I picked up the paper-knife and began to dig holes in the blotter. "So Janet didn't leave a will. That means Eudora didn't come into a legacy. Then from where was she getting her money?" I
looked up and stared thoughtfully at Paula. "Suppose she knew about Maureen's drug cure? Suppose Maureen was paying her to keep her mouth shut? It's an idea. Then I come along, and Eudora thinks she can screw a little money out of Maureen. She tells me to call back at nine, and puts through a telephone call either to Maureen or her representative who might be Dr. Salzer. In fact, could be Dr. Salzer. 'Let's have some more dough or I'll talk,' she might have said. Salzer sends Dwan down to reason with her. Instead, or even acting on orders, Dwan knocks her off. How do you like that?"

  "It sounds all right," Paula said dubiously. "But it's guess work."

  "That's right. It's guess-work. Still, I don't dislike it myself." I made three more little holes in the blotter before saying, "I think I'd better have another word with Nurse Gurney. Look, Paula, she's off duty during the day. Will you phone the Nurses' Association and see if you can get her private address? Spin them a yarn. They'll probably let you have it."