Not My Thing

by James Hadley Chase

  Then he became aware that someone was knocking on his cabin door. Frowning, he put down his coffee-cup, went to the door and opened it. He was shocked to find himself facing the fat, balding Sydney Drysdale of The Paradise City Herald. The last person he wanted to see!

  ‘Hi, Lucky,’ Drysdale said with his fat, oily smile. ‘I was passing so I thought I would look in.’

  ‘Sorry, Syd,’ Lucan said, his voice shaking. ‘I – I’ve got a date. Some other time, huh?’

  ‘Who was that tall, lean tough you were talking to?’

  Lucan felt sweat start out on his face.

  ‘Oh, that guy? I don’t even know his name. He lives down the way.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Drysdale was watching Lucan sweat. ‘Tell me, Lucky, how did you make out with Mrs Sherman Jamison?’

  If Drysdale had punched him in the face, Lucan’s reaction couldn’t be more evident. He started back, his face turning a waxy white.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ he gasped. ‘See you sometime, Syd,’ and he tried to close the door, but Drysdale’s enormous bulk held the door open.

  ‘Oh, come on, Lucky,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep it under the wraps. Have you screwed her yet?’

  ‘Get out!’ Lucan screamed hysterically. ‘Get out!’

  Drysdale smiled.

  ‘A little disturbed, Lucky. Unlike you. See you,’ and he moved back allowing Lucan to slam the door.

  Heavily, Drysdale plodded back to his car. He settled himself, lit a cigarette and did some thinking.

  Something was cooking, he told himself. Years of experience to smell out scandal sent red lights flashing in his shrewd, cunning brain.

  Why was this stupid gigolo in such a panic? Why had he reacted so violently when Shannon Jamison’s name was mentioned? Who was this tough-looking man Lucan had been talking with?

  Loose threads, but Drysdale was an expert at knitting loose threads together.

  He started his car and drove back to his office.

  * * *

  Jamison arrived at his villa in Paradise City at 17.45. He had been met at the airport by Conklin. Jamison, his face hard and set, got into the Rolls and snapped to Conklin to get him home fast. He wasn’t talking to a bird-brain like Conklin.

  Smyth was waiting in the lobby and, with a jerk of his head, Jamison indicated he was to follow him into the study.

  Jamison sat behind his desk while Smyth, looking old and pale, stood before him.

  ‘Give me this kidnap note!’ Jamison barked.

  ‘It is on your desk, sir.’

  Jamison looked around, found a scrap of paper, studied it, then pushed it aside.

  ‘You have followed my instructions? You have said and done nothing?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have said nothing about this terrible kidnapping,’ Smyth said, his voice trembling. ‘I have had six telephone calls from Mrs Jamison’s friends. They were all asking if she was going to the concert tonight. I told them she had migraine, and couldn’t be disturbed.’

  Jamison nodded.

  ‘That was efficient of you, Smyth.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but Mrs Clayton has been twice on the telephone. She wanted to come here, but I managed to persuade her that Mrs Jamison didn’t want to be disturbed.’

  Jamison scowled.

  Meg Clayton, Shannon’s best friend! Always a bloody nuisance!

  ‘These kidnappers could be amateurs, Smyth,’ he said. ‘They could panic and murder Mrs Jamison. They say their ransom demand will be made at eight o’clock tonight. In the meantime, I will handle any telephone calls for Mrs Jamison, and there is to be no leak about this damnable situation. Understand?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Can Conklin be relied to keep his mouth shut?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Leave me!’

  ‘Sir, I am very sorry about this. You can rely on me…’ Smyth began, but Jamison waved him away with a savage gesture of impatience.

  When Smyth had left the room, Jamison sat at his desk for the next twenty minutes, staring into space, his mind active. He kept thinking of Tarnia. Not for a moment did he think of his wife. He couldn’t be bothered about her. She had been kidnapped. Well, people, these days, did get kidnapped. Even if he had to pay and pay, he must be rid of her.

  The soft buzz of his telephone bell on his desk disrupted his thoughts.

  He lifted the receiver.

  ‘Yes?’ he snapped.

  ‘Sherry? This is Meg.’ A woman’s voice.

  Jesus! Jamison thought. This bloody woman again!

  Softening his voice, he said, ‘How are you, Meg?’

  ‘What’s this about Shannon suffering from migraine? She’s never had migraine before. What is this, Sherry? Shannon is the guest of honour at the Mozart recital tonight.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Jamison said, who didn’t. ‘I’m sorry, Meg. She won’t be able to attend. I am worried. The doctor has given her a sedation, and right now she is asleep. She developed this blinding headache while I was in New York. The doctor assures me she will be all right in a few days.’

  ‘Is that Doctor Macklin?’

  Knowing that Macklin was Meg Clayton’s doctor, he avoided the trap.

  ‘No. I had my own specialist to take care of her. I’m sorry, Meg, but I am desperately busy. As soon as Shannon feels well enough, she will call you. My best to you and Jay,’ and he hung up.

  By tonight, the news that Shannon wasn’t well would be all over the goddamn musical circles of the city, he thought. He had forgotten that Shannon was not only popular, but a talented cellist.

  For the next quarter of an hour, his telephone rang with people asking after Shannon. He dealt with them politely and curtly, asking them to let Shannon rest.

  He kept looking at his watch. In another half hour, Kling would contact him, and he would know the conditions of the ransom. Once he knew that, he would put the plan he had in his mind into action to defeat Kling.

  Getting to his feet, he walked from his study, through the big living-room and out onto the terrace to stare at the rising moon and to feel the hot breeze against his sweating face. He drew in several deep breaths, then, seeing Smyth hovering uneasily, he said, ‘Get me a double Scotch and lots of ice.’

  Returning to his study, he sat at his desk. He looked at the desk clock. The time now was 19.35. Soon, Kling would be telephoning him, and he would know what ransom he would be demanding.

  Smyth entered and placed the Scotch that Jamison had ordered on the desk.

  ‘You will be needing dinner, sir,’ he said. ‘What may I prepare for you?’

  ‘Oh, sandwiches!’ Jamison snapped. ‘But later!’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ and Smyth, looking sorrowful, withdrew.

  Then the telephone bell began its soft buzzing. Jamison stiffened. Was this Kling? Or was it one of Shannon’s goddamn friends? He lifted the receiver and barked, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Jamison?’ A man’s voice.

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  ‘Chief of Police Terrell.’

  Jamison felt his heart skip a beat. At some boring shindig, thrown by the Mayor, he had met Terrell and had been impressed by the man’s quiet power and authority.

  He forced himself to relax.

  ‘Hello there, Terrell. Long time no see. Look, I am busy. Something I can do for you?’

  ‘Mr Jamison, I understand that your wife was kidnapped early this morning,’ Terrell said.

  Blood rushed to Jamison’s head. He felt a sharp pain stab him in his chest. For a long moment, he sat motionless, feeling short of breath, then he made an effort and controlled his heavy breathing.

  ‘How do you know that?’ he demanded.

  ‘An eye-witness to the kidnapping, Mr Jamison. I am sorry about this,’ Terrell said, his voice quiet. ‘I want you to know we will do everything possible to be of help.’

  Jamison flew into a panicky rage.

  ‘You don’t do a goddamn thing!’ he sho
uted. ‘Understand? Keep out of this. I am handling it! If you so much as fuck up this situation, I’ll make you sorry! Understand?’

  ‘I understand, Mr Jamison,’ Terrell replied. ‘You have the usual ransom note, saying that if you contact the police Mrs Jamison will be killed. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ Jamison snarled. ‘So keep out of this! When I get my wife back, you can move in, but not before!’ and he slammed down the receiver.

  ‘Very convincing, Mr Jamison,’ Kling said as he appeared out of the shadows of the terrace. ‘I liked that.’ He moved into the light thrown by the desk lamp. ‘I’m a little before my time, but I didn’t want to keep you waiting.’

  Jamison leaned back, glaring at Kling.

  ‘How did the cops know we had kidnapped your wife?’ Kling asked, settling himself in an armchair near Jamison’s desk.

  ‘An eye-witness,’ Jamison rasped. ‘And you call yourself a professional!’

  Kling shrugged.

  ‘An eye-witness or two or even three can always be fixed. Nothing to worry about, Mr Jamison. Once, when I was knocking off a fink who was causing trouble, there were five eye-witnesses.’ He released a barking laugh. ‘They never testified. Don’t worry about eye-witnesses.’

  Jamison regarded this tall, lean, grey-haired man with revulsion.

  ‘You have gypped me, damn you!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘No… no. Don’t get the script wrong. I had second thoughts. Now, the original plan I put before you was for me to throw a bomb that would wipe out this Irish fink, your wife, the priest and a number of oldies.’ Kling shook his head. ‘That’s correct, isn’t it? You agreed that that was the perfect way to get rid of your wife. Right?’

  ‘It was your suggestion, and I agreed to it,’ Jamison said, biting off each word. ‘You now say you have had second thoughts. What thoughts?’

  Kling relaxed back in his chair.

  ‘You mightn’t think it, Mr Jamison, but I am not so tough as you. I thought about knocking off thirty or so old finks just to kill your wife, and I told myself it was like killing a gnat with a sledgehammer. You get the drift of my thoughts, Mr Jamison?’

  Jamison remained still and tense at his desk. He said nothing.

  ‘The more I thought about it, the less I liked it,’ Kling went on, after a pause. ‘But I had agreed to do the job for you. So I thought up this kidnapping caper. It will be safe: no problems for you. I went into action and your wife is safely hidden away. As soon as you pay the ransom, her body will be found in the trunk of a stolen car. It’ll be a guaranteed job. There’ll be no blow-back. You will tell the cops you paid the ransom to a masked man who told you you’d find your wife in the Casino car park, safe and sound, in the trunk of a stolen car. The cops and you will find the car and find the dead body of your wife. Get the photo, Mr Jamison?’ Kling lit a cigarette. ‘It’s a nice, safe idea. To put the icing on the cake, the ransom money will be found in the car. Two hundred thousand dollars, Mr Jamison. The cops will think it was a piker’s kidnapping. The guy lost his head, killed your wife, left the ransom which might be traced and took off. Like it?’

  Seething with rage, Jamison kept control of himself.

  ‘What’s the real ransom to be?’ he snarled.

  Kling nodded his approval.

  ‘That’s what I like about you, Mr Jamison. You get at once to the basic facts.’

  ‘What’s the ransom to be?’ Jamison repeated, clenching his fists.

  ‘You are a very rich man, Mr Jamison, and yet you are a piker. You come to me and offered me three hundred thousand to murder your wife. That was a stupid offer. Had you offered me a million, I just might have thrown a bomb. I don’t say I would have, but for a million I could have been tempted. But no, you are such a piker, you offer peanuts. So, Mr Jamison, the ransom will be five million dollars to be paid into my Swiss account.’

  Jamison reared back, staring at Kling.

  ‘Five million dollars! You must be out of your mind!’

  ‘What’s five million dollars to you, Mr Jamison? That’s the deal. A nice, safe, well organized job, and you’ll be rid of your wife for good.’

  Jamison sat still for several seconds while his mind went into action, then, satisfied with his thinking, he leaned forward, pointing his finger at Kling.

  ‘So you think you’ve been smart!’ he rasped. ‘Now, I’ll tell you something. You won’t get a dollar out of me, and I’ll tell you for why. In this ransom note you left, you say that unless the ransom is paid, my wife will be killed. Don’t you see, you stupid hunkhead, that’s what I want! I want her dead! What are you going to do with her? You’ll get no money from me! So you’re landed with her! Now, get out!’

  Kling burst out laughing. The sound of his laughter was so genuinely amused that Jamison felt a chill run down his back. ‘You heard what I said!’ he shouted. ‘Get out!’

  ‘Mr Jamison, it beats me how guys like you make so much money. I guess you must be dealing with prize suckers,’ Kling said. He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Tell me something, Mr Jamison, do you admire the Japanese technology?’

  Jamison stared at him.

  ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about! I told you to get out!’

  ‘The Japs are great people,’ Kling said. ‘At one time, they were imitators, but not now. They are ahead of the world in electronics. Listen to this.’ He put his hand inside his jacket, then Jamison’s voice came clearly into the room.

  In this ransom note you left, you say that unless the ransom is paid, my wife will be killed. Don’t you see, you stupid hunkhead, that’s what I want.

  Kling’s fingers moved and the voice stopped.

  ‘Marvellous, don’t you think, Mr Jamison? Electronics. New inventions. I always carry this little gimmick around with me. When we had our interesting talk about the bomb, I had it working. I have a good tape of our conversation.’

  Jamison sat motionless, stunned, then he thought of the .38 revolver he kept in his top drawer of his desk. In frustrated fury and alarm, his hand moved to the drawer.

  ‘No, Mr Jamison. Don’t try that,’ Kling said gently. ‘Look!’

  As Jamison stared at him, an ugly-looking Beretta appeared as if by magic in Kling’s hand.

  ‘Before you even touch your gun, Mr Jamison, you’re dead,’ Kling said. ‘Now, relax. Put your hands on your desk.’ As Jamison obeyed, Kling returned the gun to its holster. ‘Okay, now we can talk. You are way out of the big league, Mr Jamison. Okay, you are great when dealing with prize suckers, but not with professionals like me. Let’s take a long look at the setup. I have promised to get rid of your wife. I’ll do that, because in my racket when a killer fails it gets known, and that’s bad for my business, so I get rid of your wife. In return, you pay into my Swiss bank five million dollars. I know to a piker like, you, Mr Jamison, parting with money like that hurts. Now, if I were dealing with prize suckers as you do, I’d think this bastard was bluffing. If he gives his tapes to the cops, he would be in the same shit as I would be, so he’d be bluffing.’ Kling smiled evilly. ‘That would be wrong thinking, Mr Jamison. Let me spell it out. If you don’t pay five million dollars into my Swiss bank, I am going to the DA and tell him a story. My story will be you hired me to murder your wife and offered to pay me three hundred thousand dollars. Now, I tell the DA that money means something to me, so I conned you. I’ll tell the DA I had no intention of murdering your wife, but every intention to get your money. So the DA listens to the tapes. When he knows who you are, he will fall over himself to nail you. When you are as big as you are, you have many enemies, Mr Jamison. You have a wolf-pack behind you, waiting to pull you down. Then the press get hold of it, and they’ll crucify you. Here is one of the richest men in this country, planning to get rid of his wife by murder! Man! Won’t the press have a ball! So what happens? You’ll be arrested and thrown into the slammer. Then, because you have lots of clout and money, you hire the best attorneys who will work like crazy to get you
off the hook. But Mr Jamison, I will be willing to testify against you. When a jury hears me, you don’t have a hope to beat the rap. Right. Now, first the Judge will consider me. I will have admitted to kidnapping your wife, but have returned her safe and sound. So he’ll send me away for a couple of years. Then he’ll take a long look at you. You will go away for at least fifteen years, Mr Jamison, and you will be ruined. Right. Now when I get sentenced, my Mafia friends will appeal and get my case – not yours – before a Mafia judge who will shake his head, fine me two thousand dollars, and I’m free again, but not you. This is the result of being a professional. Get the photo?’

  For some minutes, Jamison sat still, knowing he had been completely outsmarted, then with a shrug he said, ‘You don’t expect me to raise five million dollars at once, do you?’

  ‘I’ll give you ten days from tomorrow,’ Kling said, getting to his feet. ‘If I don’t hear from my Swiss bank by the eighteenth of this month, then I go visit the DA.’

  ‘You’ll get the money,’ Jamison grated. ‘In return, I will be rid of my wife?’

  ‘Of course. That’s no problem. Pay up, and I guarantee you’ll be rid of her.’

  With an airy wave of his hand, Kling walked out onto the terrace and disappeared into the darkness.

  * * *

  The Good Eatery restaurant offered the best value for money in the city.

  With glistening eyes, Frederick Whitelaw surveyed the mountain of spaghetti, smothered in tomato and onion sauce, that had been set before him. He smiled contentedly as he fingered Chief of Police Terrell’s ten-dollar bill. He had ordered chicken drumsticks in a curry sauce to follow.

  As he began to attack the spaghetti, the restaurant door opened and Sydney Drysdale wandered in. He had completed his column, and had decided to have a light snack before returning home to watch a TV programme that interested him, and then go out again for his usual three course dinner.

  He looked around hopefully to see if there was anyone interesting in the restaurant from whom he could get an item of news for his next day’s column. He spotted Frederick Whitelaw, cramming his mouth with spaghetti.