You've Got It Coming

by James Hadley Chase

  A Buick convertible forced its way across the double line of traffic and parked fifty yards or so further up the street. A tall, slouching figure of a man got out of the car and wandered towards her.

  He looked the kind of man Ben would employ, and with her heart beating rapidly, she entered the store. She walked through the various departments to the escalator that would take her to the next floor. As she was carried upwards, she looked back into the well of the store.

  The tall man, hands in pockets, a cigarette between his thin lips, was moving with long strides to the escalator, and she was now satisfied that she hadn't underestimated Ben. He had sent someone after her.

  She went into the hosiery department and bought herself a pair of nylon stockings. The department was almost empty. The tall man wasn't in sight.

  Then she went down the escalator again and crossed over to a row of telephone booths. The last one in the row was empty. A woman was in the one next to it. By the way she was arranging her parcels and making herself comfortable, Glorie guessed she would be there for some time. She stepped into the end booth and slid the door shut. Screening the dial with her body, she dialled her apartment number. While the bell was ringing, she glanced through the glass panel of the door.

  The tall man was nearby, examining an electric razor he had picked up from a display of razors on a counter. She knew he wouldn't be able to overhear her and she waited impatiently for Harry to answer. He came on the line after a moment or so.

  “Harry? This is Glorie.”

  “How did you get on?” he asked anxiously.

  “It's all right. He'll see you. Now listen, Harry, he's sent one of his men after me. I think he wants to find out who you are, and he thinks I'll lead him to you. I'm calling from Ferrier's, and his man is right outside. You've got to pack and leave at once. This man mustn't see you. I'll keep him busy until you have time to pack and get a taxi. Then I'll lose him.” She looked at her watch. The time was twenty minutes to one o'clock. “I shall be at the corner of Western and Lennox at one-fifteen. There's a newsstand there. Stop the cab, get out and buy a paper. Don't look at me unless I speak to you. If I have shaken him off I'll join you in the cab. If he's still following me you must go to the station. The train leaves at two. If I can, I'll see you off, but if I can't, then we will meet in the lobby of the Astor in New York on Friday at eleven o'clock. Do you understand?”

  “Sure.” Harry's voice sounded excited. “Don't take any risks, baby. I'll be there at one-fifteen.”

  “Yes.” Glorie felt a little pang. She hated being parted from him, and the thought of the next three lonely days dismayed her.

  “And Harry, be careful as you leave the apartment. Ben may have checked the telephone book and found where I live. He may have sent someone down to watch the house. Make certain you're not followed, won’t you?”

  “I'll take care of that. He is going to see me?”

  “Yes. I'll tell you what happened when we meet. One-fifteen, Harry, and be careful.”

  As Harry laid down the receiver, he heard the front-door bell ring.

  His mind occupied with what Glorie had been telling him, he crossed the room and entered the small hall. His hand was reaching to open the front door, when he paused, his face suddenly tightening. Since he had been living with Glorie he couldn't remember anyone calling after ten o'clock.

  Who could this be? He remembered Glorie's warning. It was possible the caller was one of Ben's men. He stepped silently to the door and gently slid home the bolt. Then he waited, tense and listening. The bell rang again, sharply and persistently. Still Harry waited. Several minutes dragged by. Then the key in the lock began to move. Harry watched it, his heart thumping. Someone had nipped the end of the key in a pair of long forceps and was turning the key from the outside. There was a soft click as the lock snapped back, then the door handle turned and the door creaked against the bolt.

  Harry stepped away from the door. Moving silently he went into the bedroom and pulled out his suitcase from under the bed.

  The man outside would know there was someone in the apartment from the fact that the key was in the door. He would probably wait in the passage. He might wait there for the rest of the day.

  Harry cursed under his breath. He looked at his wristwatch.

  He had only twenty minutes before he met Glorie.

  He packed hurriedly, taking only a change of underthings, a shirt, his best suit and another pair of shoes. He tiptoed into the bathroom for his shaving kit and sponge. Crossing to the bathroom window, he opened it and glanced out. The iron fire escape down to the back alley showed him his way out. He returned to the bedroom, finished packing, then he opened the top drawer of the chest, took from under a pile of shirts a Colt .45 automatic and a box of cartridges. He loaded the gun and slid it into his hip pocket, put the cartridges into the suitcase, closed the lid and snapped down the catches. Then he opened the wardrobe door, took out his topcoat and hat and put them on.

  He went into the bathroom, pushed up the window and stepped out on to the iron platform of the escape.

  A girl who worked at a drug store on the corner of the block and who was friendly with Glorie lived in the apartment below.

  Harry knew she would be at work at this time and the apartment would be empty. He went down the iron steps to her bathroom window which was half open. He opened it fully, glanced down into the alley to make sure no one was watching him, then climbed into the bathroom, reached for his case and lowered the window. He walked through into the sitting room and into the hall. At the front door, he paused to turn up his coat collar and pull his hat further over his eyes. Then he opened the door and stepped into the passage.

  The stairs leading to Gloria's apartment were at the end of the passage. A short, thickset man in a trench coat and black slouch hat lolled against the wall, a cigarette between his lips.

  He gave Harry a casual, disinterested stare. Harry closed the door and picked up his suitcase. He was tense and his mouth was dry. This was a new experience to him, and it underlined the danger and the risks that lay ahead of him.

  “Hey, bud,” the man said as Harry started down the passage.

  “Just a moment.”

  Harry half-turned. There was little light in the passage and he kept his head turned so the short man couldn't get a good view of him.

  “What is it?”

  “Miss Dane in?”

  “How do I know? Why don't you go up and find out?”

  “I couldn't get an answer. Does she live alone, bud?”

  “Yes.” Harry began to move down the passage. “I've got a train to catch. You'd better talk to the janitor.”

  The man grunted and Harry went quickly to the front door, opened it and went down the steps. He walked the length of the street. At the corner, he paused to look back. Apart from an empty car that stood a hundred yards or so from the apartment house, the street was deserted.

  A taxi cruised past and Harry waved his hand.

  “Western and Lennox,” he said, “and snap it up.”

  He sat, half turned, so he could look out of the rear window, but no car followed him. His watch showed exactly one-fifteen as the cab pulled up at the newsstand.

  Glorie was waiting, and before Harry could get out of the cab, she had run across the sidewalk and got in beside him.

  “Where to?” Harry asked.

  “The station.”

  The driver looked at Harry for confirmation, then at his nod, he pulled out into the slow-moving traffic.

  “All right?” Glorie asked softly.

  “Yes.”

  They sat in silence while the cab fought its way through the heavy traffic. Glorie held Harry's hand, looking at him anxiously.

  When they reached the station and Harry had paid off the cab, they walked together to the station buffet. Glorie went over to a vacant table in a corner while Harry bought two cups of coffee and carried them over.

  “Your pal's turning on the heat,” he said as he
sat down. He went on to tell her what had happened. “I don't know how you're going to get into the apartment,” he concluded. “The door's bolted on the inside. I guess you'll have to wait until Doris gets back and get in through the bathroom window.”

  Glorie shook her head.

  “I'm not going back. It's not safe, Harry. I'm not kidding myself I'll be so lucky next time. If I go back, Ben will put more than one man on to follow me, and I'll never shake them off. It was only luck that I got away from him this time. I went into the ladies' room at Ferrier's. There was a way out through the staff entrance. But I won’t get away with it a second time. I'm coming with you to New York. We mustn't travel together. We'll meet as arranged at the Astor at eleven on Friday.”

  “But you haven't anything packed.”

  She shrugged.

  “I can get all I want in New York.” She leaned forward, her hands on the table. “You've got to be careful, Harry. Don't trust Ben. He's altered. I scarcely knew him. He's much more dangerous and more ruthless.”

  “What happened?”

  Briefly she told him of the interview.

  “That's pretty good. Don't worry about me. You've given me the opening I want. I'll take care of him.”

  “Don't trust him.” Glorie's eyes were anxious. “Get the money before you do the job. Don't listen to any of his promises and don't let him scare you.”

  Harry grinned.

  “He won’t do that.” He finished his coffee, then glanced at his strap watch. “Well, I guess we'd better get our tickets. You go first. See you at the Astor on Friday.”

  “Yes.” She looked at him. “I shall miss you, Harry.”

  “It won’t be for long.”

  She got up and touched his shoulder..

  “Look after yourself, darling.”

  “You bet.”

  He watched her walk the length of the buffet. His eyes took in her straight back and her slim, shapely legs. He thought if she'd only smarten herself up she'd be quite a looker. He felt a little surge of affection for her. She had guts, and that was what few women had.

  He lit a cigarette, dropping the match into the saucer of the cup.

  Well, this was it he thought. This is the beginning of it. If he had any luck, in twenty days' time he would be worth fifty thousand dollars.

  If he had any luck…

  III

  On the evening of 16th of January, a taxi pulled up outside Lamson's hotel on Sherbourne Boulevard West, and the driver reached out, turned the handle of the rear door and let the door swing open.

  Storm clouds, driven by a blustery wind, had chased across the sky most of the day, and now the wind had lessened, and rain, that looked like thin steel rods in the yellow light of the street lamps, was falling steadily. It made swift-running rivulets in the gutters, dripped from the awning of a drug store, next to the hotel, and drummed on the roof of the cab.

  The driver scowled across the black, glistening sidewalk at the entrance to the hotel. A dim, yellow light showed in the transom of the double swing doors leading into the hotel. Six worn, dirty steps led from the doors down to the street It wasn't often that he brought a fare to Lamson's. He couldn't remember when he had brought the last one. The people who stayed there hadn't money to waste on cabs. They either walked or took a bus. It was the cheapest and the most sordid hotel in Los Angeles: a joint that was used chiefly by streetwalkers and crooks just out of jail in need of a roof until they planned their next petty theft.

  The driver's fare got out of the cab, shoved a five-dollar bill into the driver's hand and said in an odd-sounding voice, “Keep the change. Buy yourself a new cab with it. You need one.”

  The driver was so astonished that he leaned out of his cab to stare at his fare. He hadn't expected a tip. He had been prepared for a wrangle about over-changing. Five bucks! The guy must be crazy!

  His eyes took in the tall, bulky figure, wearing a shabby trench coat and a dark brown, shabby hat. Massively built he was at a guess around forty-five; a fat, tough-looking customer with a straggling blond moustache, a nasty-looking scar that ran from his right eye down to the corner of his mouth, puckering the skin and slightly pulling down his right eyelid, giving him a sinister appearance. In his left hand, he carried a shabby fibre suitcase, and in his right, a thick walking stick, tipped with rubber.

  “This for me?” the driver said blankly, looking at the bill.

  “There's only a buck twenty on the clock.”

  “If you don't want it,” the fare said, “give it back to me and you can whistle for your goddamn fare.”

  His voice sounded as if he had something in his mouth, an odd, strangled sound. Maybe, the driver thought, he's one of those guys who hasn't a roof to his mouth. When he spoke, he showed gleaming white teeth, like the projecting teeth of a horse. They thrust his upper lip and his moustache forward, giving him an aggressive, hostile expression.

  “Well, it's your money,” the driver said and hurriedly put the bill in his pocket. “Thanks, mister.” He hesitated, then went on, “Are you sure you want a dump like this? I know a place that's cleaner further down the road. It's not much more expensive. Here the bugs don't wait to come out at night. They're with you all the time and they've got teeth like a bear trap.”

  “If you don't want your snout pushed through the back of your head,” the fare snarled, “keep it out of my business.”

  He moved across the sidewalk, limping badly, and leaning on his stick. He climbed the steps and disappeared into the hotel.

  The driver stared after him, frowning. A nut, he concluded.

  Five bucks and staying at a joint like Lamson's! He shook his head, thinking of the oddities he had driven in his cab; this was another for his memory book. He engaged gear and drove away into the rain.

  The lobby of Lamson's hotel was even more dingy than its exterior. Three wicker chairs, a dusty palm in a tarnished brass pot, a strip of coconut matting with several holes in it, and a fly-blown mirror made up its furnishing. Over the whole dismal scene there brooded a smell of stale sweat, cabbage water and defective plumbing. To the right of the lobby, facing the main entrance, was the reception desk behind which sat Lamson, the owner of the hotel, a fat man, wearing a derby hat at the back of his head. He was in shirt sleeves which were rolled back to show hairy, tattooed arms.

  Lamson eyed the limping man, not moving. His small, hard eyes took in the heavy, sun-tanned, scarred face, the straggling moustache and the limp.

  “I want a room,” the limping man said, setting down his suitcase. “Your best room. How much?”

  Lamson glanced over his shoulder at the row of keys, made a mental calculation, decided it would be worth trying and said, “You can have No. 32. I wouldn't let anyone have it. It's the best. Cost you a buck and a half a night.”

  The limping man took out a wallet, selected a ten-dollar bill and dropped it on the desk.

  “I'll t a k e it for four nights.”

  Careful not to show his surprise, Lamson took the bill, smoothed it flat while he examined it, then satisfied that it was genuine, he folded it carefully and tucked it away in his watch pocket. He produced four grimy dollar bills and laid them regretfully down on the counter.

  “Put it towards breakfast,” the limping man said, waving the bills aside. “I want service and I expect to pay for it.”

  “That's okay, mister. We'll take care of you,” Lamson said. He hurriedly put the bills back into his pocket. “I can fix you a meal now if you want it.”

  “I don't. Coffee and toast tomorrow morning at nine.”

  “I'll fix it.” Lamson produced a dog-eared notebook that served as a register. “Have to ask you to sign in, mister; police regulations.”

  The limping man wrote a name in the book with the stub of pencil that was attached to the book by a piece of string.

  Lamson turned the book and squinted at what he had written.

  In block letters the limping man had printed: Harry Green, Pittsburgh.

&nbs
p; “Okay, Mr. Green,” Lamson said. “Can I send anything up to your room? We got beer, whisky or gin.” The man who called himself Harry Green shook his head.

  “No. But I want to use the phone.”

  Lamson jerked his thumb towards the pay booth in the far corner.

  “Go ahead. Help yourself.”

  The limping man shut himself in the pay booth. He dialled a number and waited. After a delay a woman's voice said, “Mr. Delaney's residence. Who is calling?”

  “This is Harry Green. Mr. Delaney is expecting me to call. Put me through please.”

  “Hold a moment.”

  There was a long pause, then a click sounded over the line and a man said, “This is Delaney.”

  “Glorie Dane told me to call you, Mr. Delaney.”

  “Yeah, that's right. You want to see me, don't you? Come over here at eight o'clock tonight. I can give you ten minutes.”

  “Are you sure you want me to be seen at your place? Doesn't sound like a good idea to me.”

  There was a pause.

  “Doesn't it?” Ben's voice was sharp. “Then what does seem a good idea to you?”

  “You might not want anyone to know I've talked to you if what could happen, happens. We could talk in a car at West Pier where we wouldn't be seen.”

  Again there was a pause.

  “Look, Green, if you're wasting my time,” Ben said finally, his voice coldly vicious, “you'll be sorry. I don't like time wasters.”

  “I don't either. I have a proposition. It's up to you to judge if listening to it is a waste of time or not.”

  “Be at West Pier at half past ten tonight,” Ben snapped and slammed down the receiver.

  For a long moment the man who called himself Harry Green leaned against the side of the pay booth, the receiver in his hand while he stared through the grimy glass panel of the door into space. He experienced a feeling of triumph, mixed with uneasiness.

  One more step towards the big steal, he thought: one more milestone. In four days' time he would be on the airfield waiting for the night plane to San Francisco to take off. He replaced the receiver and limped over to where he had left his suitcase.