1972 - You're Dead Without Money

by James Hadley Chase

  All right . . . she had said she was in love with Elliot, but once Elliot was off the scene, she would forget him.

  ‘I’m going,’ Joey said. ‘I’ll get the stamps. You just wait here.’

  With an almost jaunty step, he left the bungalow.

  Through the window, Vin watched him go. Joey’s sudden change of attitude baffled him.

  ‘The old goat’s nutty,’ he thought. ‘Goddamn it! He looks almost happy!’

  Shrugging, he crossed the room and picked up the telephone book. He found the number of the Belvedere hotel and dialed it.

  ‘Put me through to Mr. Radnitz,’ he said when the receptionist came on the line.

  There was a delay, then Holtz, who took all incoming calls, said, ‘Mr. Herman Radnitz’s secretary.’

  ‘Give me Mr. Radnitz,’ Vin said.

  ‘Who is calling?’

  ‘Never mind. I’ve got business with him.’

  ‘Please state your business in writing,’ Holtz said and hung up.

  For a long moment, his face red with fury, Vin stared at the telephone, then he dialled the hotel again.

  Again Holtz came on the line.

  ‘I want to talk to Radnitz!’ Vin snarled. ‘Tell him it’s to do with stamps.’

  At the other end Holtz stiffened to attention.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Get stuffed, you goddamn dummy!’ Vin bawled. ‘Tell him!’

  ‘Hold on.’ Getting to his feet, Holtz went quickly out on to the terrace.

  Radnitz was having a late cup of coffee.

  ‘There’s a man on the line who wants to talk to you, sir,’ Holtz said. ‘He won’t give his name but he says it is to do with stamps.’

  Radnitz put down his cup.

  ‘Put him through and trace the call,’ he said.

  A moment later, Vin heard a guttural voice say, ‘This is Radnitz. Who are you?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Vin was sweating with excitement. A Big Shot like Radnitz wouldn’t have come on the line unless he was the guy who wanted the stamps. This meant Elliot had guessed right. ‘Are you interested in eight Russian stamps?’

  There was a pause, then Radnitz said, ‘Yes, I am interested.’

  Vin paused. He wasn’t sure how to play this.

  ‘I said I was interested,’ Radnitz said sharply as he heard nothing but a quiet humming over the line. ‘Have you got them?’

  ‘I’ve got them.’ Vin wiped the sweat from his face. ‘What they worth to you?’

  ‘We are talking over an open line,’ Radnitz said smoothly. ‘I suggest you come and see me. Come right away.’

  Vin suddenly relaxed. So this rich, powerful punk was that eager, he thought.

  ‘I’ll call back. I’m busy right now. Maybe I can fit you in sometime tonight,’ he said and he hung up.

  Leaning on the table, staring at the telephone, he felt a surge of power. A million dollars! Maybe he could squeeze a million and a half out of this punk! So he called the President by his first name! So he was the biggest wheeler-dealer in the world! Well, Vin thought, I’ll show him! If he wants these stamps so goddamn bad, then he’ll sweat for them.

  Holtz came across the terrace to where Radnitz was sitting, staring out to sea.

  ‘The call was from the Seagull bungalow, sir.’

  ‘It would be this man Pinna?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you Lessing’s report for this morning?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Elliot and Miss Luck left the bungalow at 10.00. They are being followed. Luck left at 10.45. He is also being followed.’

  Radnitz nodded.

  ‘Keep me informed,’ he said and waved Holtz away.

  * * *

  At the Excelsior hotel, Elliot shut himself in an air-conditioned telephone booth and waited for his connection to C.I.A. headquarters, Washington.

  Through the glass panel he could see Cindy sitting across the lounge, looking anxiously at him. He waved to her as he was connected. He asked to speak to Mr. Lee Humphrey. He went through the usual rigmarole of talking to an undersecretary, then to a secretary, then finally Humphrey came on the line himself.

  ‘Mr. Humphrey, I wish to remain anonymous,’ Elliot said. ‘I understand your organization is interested in eight Russian stamps.’

  There was no hesitation in Humphrey’s booming voice as he said, ‘That is correct. If you have any information regarding these stamps, it is your duty to the State to give that information right here and now.’

  Elliot grimaced.

  ‘My duty to the State? Would you expand on that?’

  ‘The State wants these stamps. Every philatelist in the country has been notified to this effect. There is a penalty of three years’ imprisonment and a thirty thousand dollar fine if anyone holding these stamps does not send them immediately to me.’

  ‘Can you tell me, Mr. Humphrey, just why these stamps are so important to the State?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. Have you the stamps?’

  ‘It would make a difference if I knew,’ Elliot said. ‘If you will be frank with me and tell me just why these stamps are so important I will answer your question.’

  ‘I can’t tell you over an open line. If you have these stamps or know where they are or have any information it is your duty to go to the nearest C.I.A. office and either deliver the stamps or give information.’

  ‘You keep talking about duty, Mr. Humphrey. I’ve been offered a million dollars for these stamps. Is the State making an offer?’

  ‘That we can discuss. So you have them?’

  ‘I’ll call you back later,’ Elliot said, aware that he had talked long enough on this telephone. He hung up. Taking out his handkerchief, he carefully wiped the receiver, then the door handle of the booth. Satisfied he had got rid of any fingerprints, he walked over to where Cindy was sitting.

  She could see by the expression oil his face he was worried.

  ‘What is it, Don?’

  He told her of the conversation he had had with Humphrey and as she listened, her eyes grew round.

  ‘Duty to the State?’ She put her hand on his. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘The C.I.A. aren’t dramatic,’ Elliot said. ‘It seems to me well have to give them the stamps. The last thing we want is to get the C.I.A. after us.’

  ‘Let’s go home, get the stamps and send them,’ Cindy said. ‘What do you think they can mean . . . duty to the State?’

  Elliot gave her a little nudge as two big men, quietly dressed, came swiftly into the hotel lounge. One of them went to the girl who was in control of the switchboard, spoke to her, then went to the booth where Elliot had made his call.

  ‘The C.I.A.,’ Elliot said. ‘Just take it easy. I want to see what they do.’

  One of the men was closely dusting the receiver for fingerprints while the other went to the hall porter and began to question him.

  ‘Okay, Cindy, let’s go.’ Elliot got casually to his feet.

  The hotel lobby was swarming with tourists and by walking slowly, pushing their way through the crowd, they attracted no attention.

  ‘I’ve got to talk to Humphrey again,’ Elliot said. ‘We’ll drive to Dayton Beach.’

  They got into the Alfa Romeo and Elliot headed north.

  Cindy looked anxiously at him as he drove. There was a bitter expression on his face now and it frightened her.

  ‘Don . . . let’s go back,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter. We can get by. We don’t have to have this money. If you’ll stay with dad and me . . .’

  ‘Skip it,’ Elliot said curtly. ‘I told you how it was going to be, Cindy. There’s something fatal about me. We’ve met . . . we’ve liked each other . . . we’ve had a good time together . . . that’s as far as it’s going to go. Just take it easy . . . I want to think.’

  Cindy relapsed into silence: her hands into fists, gripped between her knees.

  As Elliot drove up the broad highway, his mind wrestled with the problem. For some important reason,
these stamps were at priority. The C.I.A. wouldn’t have said this unless it was true. ‘Your duty to the State.’ Against that there was Radnitz offering a million. Radnitz had dealings with the Soviet Union. This must mean that the Russians were as anxious to get the stamps as were the C.I.A. If he gave the stamps to Humphrey in the hope he would be paid a reward, he was certain Humphrey would want to know from whom he had got the stamps and this would involve Larrimore. That was, to Elliot, unthinkable. The only way was to mail the stamps to Humphrey and kiss the million goodbye.

  The money doesn’t matter, Cindy had said, and he could believe that. She and Joey had lived for years on a shoestring, stealing, living simply and they could go back to their old way of life. Vin didn’t matter. He would always look after himself.

  Elliot whipped the Alfa past a Cadillac as he turned his thoughts to himself. This was the end of the road, he thought. Well, what did it matter? He had had fun for eight or nine days: something he couldn’t remember having had for a long, long time. It was still a good movie script. He had outfoxed Vin without the aid of the scriptwriters. He would talk again to Humphrey and tell him that the stamps were on their way.

  He would drive Cindy back to Paradise City. Tell Vin the operation was abortive. He was confident he could take care of Vin if Vin turned ugly. Then, he would walk out, get in the Alfa and drive to Hollywood. Sleeping pills would take care of the rest of the story. His non-existent foot began to ache. He would be better off, he thought, with no future. He remembered what he had said to Cindy: You’re dead without money.

  He glanced at her. She was sitting motionless, looking through the windshield, her lips parted, her face a mask of misery. For a little while, he thought, she would suffer, but she was young.

  In a year or so, he would be just a romantic memory. He reached out and patted her hand.

  ‘It’ll work out, Cindy,’ he said. ‘It always does.’

  She didn’t look at him, but she moved her hand and gripped his.

  Later, he pulled up outside the Beach hotel at Dayton Beach.

  ‘Wait here, Cindy,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  During the drive they had scarcely spoken and Cindy was in despair. She felt now she had lost this man who meant so much to her. A barrier had grown up between them and she was fearful of what he intended to do.

  Again inside an air-conditioned telephone booth, Elliot called Humphrey.

  ‘Mr. Humphrey,’ Elliot said as soon as he was connected, ‘you can call off your men. Don’t try to find me. I’m sending you the stamps by registered mail. You will have them the day after tomorrow. The only condition is you won’t try to find me. If you act smart and I get picked up, I assure you you will never get the stamps. Okay?’

  ‘If the stamps don’t arrive on my desk by the day after tomorrow,’ Humphrey said, his voice curt, ‘we’ll come after you. I have a tape recording of your voice. You’ll be in the middle of the biggest manhunt this country has ever staged. I’ll give you until the day after tomorrow and then, if you haven’t delivered, you’re in trouble.’

  This could be a James Bond movie script, Elliot thought.

  Well, the stamps would arrive and he wouldn’t be in that kind of trouble.

  ‘Let’s hope we don’t have a mail strike,’ he said and hung up.

  * * *

  As soon as Vin had hung up on his conversation with Radnitz, he went to his bedroom and packed his things. He was so elated with the thought that within a very short time he would be worth a million dollars he was almost tempted to leave all his old clothes, thinking that soon he could buy himself a complete new wardrobe. Once the bag was packed, he looked around the room, made sure he had left nothing, then dropping his .38 automatic into his hip pocket, he carried the bag into the living room.

  Lighting a cigarette, he went to the window. It would take Joey a good hour to get down town, collect the stamps and return. Well, that was all right with Vin. He could wait . . . just so long as Joey did come back. Vin told himself that Joey was so spineless he would get the stamps. He grinned to himself as he thought of how he had scared the crap out of Joey with a bottle of eye drops.

  While he stood by the window, he thought of Radnitz. He could be tricky. Suppose he tried a double-cross? A million was a hell of a lot of money. Radnitz wouldn’t give him that sum in cash.

  Vin rubbed his jaw while he thought. How to work this?

  After a while and having made his brain creak he decided he and Radnitz would meet at Radnitz’s bank. Before a bank witness, Vin would hand over the stamps in return for a certified cheque. That seemed to be the safe and only way to block a double-cross. Radnitz would have to remain in the bank until the money had been transferred by Telex to Vin’s New York bank. Satisfied that he had solved this problem, he continued to wait, his mind roving into the future. Man! What would he do with all this bread! He had always wanted a yacht. Okay, so he would buy a yacht. He would buy one of those big estates in Bermuda the pictures of which he had so often seen in the coloured glossies. He would fill the house with willing dollies.

  Man! Would he live it up! Then when he wanted a change he would get aboard his yacht with one special chick and take off into the sun. That was the way to live! Vin grinned. Two days . . . then he would have the key that opened the door to a new, rich and exciting life!

  He went on dreaming and waiting and the hands of his watch crept on. Vin didn’t mind the wait. Who cared about waiting when a future so full of everything he wanted made coloured pictures in his mind?

  Then he saw Joey coming up the path leading to the bungalow.

  Vin watched him. The jaunty, sprightly step and Joey’s relaxed, almost happy expression baffled Vin. It was as if Joey was receiving a million dollars rather than losing them.

  Vin went to the front door and jerked it open as Joey reached the steps.

  ‘Did you get them?’ Vin demanded, aware his voice was unsteady.

  ‘I’ve got them,’ Joey said and moving past Vin, he entered the living room.

  Vin went after him.

  ‘Give!’ He caught hold of Joey’s arm, his face alight with greed and excitement.

  Joey handed him an envelope. Vin snatched it and ripped it open. He took out a plastic envelope containing the eight stamps. He stared at them, his eyes gleaming.

  ‘They don’t look much, do they?’

  Joey moved away from him, watching him.

  ‘Lots of things don’t look much,’ he said quietly. ‘You and me don’t look much.’

  Vin wasn’t listening. He was gloating over the stamps. Finally, he put them in his pocket.

  ‘Well, I’m on my way, Joey,’ he said. ‘Think of me - rich! Man! Am I going to have a ball! Tell that dummy movie star from me to get stuffed! He thought he was smart. Tell him I’m smarter.’ He went to pick up his bag while Joey watched him, saying nothing.

  Vin paused and looked at him.

  ‘You don’t say much, do you, Joey?’

  ‘What’s there to say except I’m glad to see you go,’ Joey said quietly. ‘I hope you enjoy the money. Get going. Don could come back.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Vin started for the door, then again paused. ‘So long, Joey. When next we meet, if ever, I’ll buy you a cigar.’ He went quickly down the path to the waiting Jaguar.

  Joey drew in a long, deep breath. So all that danger, risk, the threat of the cops was now finished, he thought. He would have to be careful how he explained it all to Cindy. Maybe if he explained it right, she would come to her senses, see that their way of life was the best way of life. He sat down limply in a chair, feeling suddenly depressed and very tired, but he knew - he was sure - that he had done the right thing. Who wanted all that money? You didn’t have to have money to be happy, he assured himself. He closed his eyes and began to rehearse what he would tell Cindy.

  * * *

  ‘Being a writer, Mr. Campbell,’ Barney said as he finished what must have been his sixteenth beer, ‘I don’t have to tell you that
every story has some loose ends. Now, this may surprise you, but when I tell a story, I like to be neat. I like to tie up as many loose ends as I can.’

  I said that was the hallmark of a good writer and it did him credit. He squinted at me suspiciously, not quite sure if I were conning him or not, but finally he decided I wasn’t.

  ‘Telling a story is like painting a picture,’ he went on. ‘You finally finish it and you sit back and look at it and you find there are still a few touches to make it perfect . . . right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, I’m going back to a corner of my picture that you might think I’ve neglected.’ He scowled across the smoky, crowded bar and waved an urgent hand.

  Sam shoved his way through the crowd, carrying the seventeenth beer and another vicious looking hamburger.

  ‘Are you eating again?’ I asked, not because I begrudged paying for this horrible abortion, but because I found it hard to believe any man, at one sitting, could work through three of these soggy messes, plus two dozen mouth exploding sausages.

  ‘My midnight snack,’ Barney said gravely. ‘If I don’t eat well, I don’t sleep well. If there’s one thing I like, apart from beer and talking, it’s sleeping well.’

  I said I understood.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said as he began to cut up the hamburger. ‘I’m going to shift the scene just for a moment to the two hippies I told you about at the beginning of this story: Larry and Robo.’ He chewed, then looked inquiringly at me. ‘You remember them?’

  I said I remembered them. They were the two Vin had run into when he had first met Judy Larrimore: the two Vin had fought with and had kicked around, busting Larry’s nose.