Not My Thing

by James Hadley Chase

  Lucan had a photographic memory for faces: this was part of his way of life. As he lay on the sand, a picture came into his mind of a big, powerfully built man striding down a street in Miami. Lucan had been talking to a black man who was trying to persuade him to help him handle his string of hustlers.

  The black man nudged Lucan.

  ‘See that fink?’ he had said in a whisper. ‘Remember him. That’s Howard Jackson, the FBI agent in this town. You run up against him, and you run into trouble.’

  That had been three years ago.

  Lucan sat up, cold sweat oozing out of him.

  Yes!

  Jack Shaddock was Howard Jackson, an FBI agent!

  His mind in utter panic, Lucan stared at the sea. It took him several minutes to get his panic under control. Beryl must be an FBI plant! This could only mean that the FBI suspected that he had something to do with the kidnapping, and they were watching him!

  He got unsteadily to his feet and walked back to his cabin.

  With the cabin door shut, Lucan went to the liquor-cabinet and poured himself a triple Scotch. Then he sat down. He drank and moaned to himself.

  The FBI!

  He moaned again. How could he have been so crazy as to have got himself involved with a man like Kling?

  Greed, of course!

  He had been mesmerized by the thought of owning five hundred thousand dollars.

  What was a sum like that compared to his freedom? He knew if there was a slip-up, and with the FBI watching him, he could go behind bars for at least ten years!

  He must leave at once! He would return to New York! He would find another old, fat woman who would keep him in luxury. Yes! He must leave at once!

  Finishing his drink, he jumped to his feet and rushed into the bedroom. He dressed. Then it took him only half an hour to pack his many clothes in two suitcases.

  To hell with five hundred thousand dollars! he kept telling himself.

  Out! Out! Out!

  For a brief moment, he paused, wondering if he should alert Kling that they were being watched by FBI agents. No! That could lead to complications. Kling might not let him go. To hell with him!

  Lucan went out into the hot sunshine, looked furtively to right and left, then brought his car to the cabin.

  Watched by Howard Jackson and Beryl, he threw his suitcases into the car’s trunk and drove to the reception desk. There he settled his check, saying he had to return home immediately, then he drove off.

  ‘Are you letting that creep get away?’ Beryl asked.

  ‘We can’t stop him,’ Jackson said. ‘So far, we have nothing on him. I guess he must have recognized me and has taken fright. After all, the big catch is the tough and the Vietnamese.’

  * * *

  A few minutes before 20.00, Maurice Felder arrived at the Baur au Lac hotel. He was immediately conducted to Sherman Jamison’s suite where he found Jamison pacing restlessly up and down the big living-room. He saw a table was laid for dinner, and this pleased Felder who liked good food.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Felder,’ Jamison said, shaking hands. ‘No doubt you have news for me. Dinner will be served at once, then we can talk.’

  Even as he was speaking, there came a tap on the door, and two waiters pushed a trolley into the room.

  ‘A simple meal,’ Jamison said. ‘Smoked salmon, came d’agneau and cheese. I understand they have a bottle of Margaux ’61 which should be drinkable.’

  The two men sat at the table. While eating the thick slices of smoked salmon, Felder, aware that Jamison didn’t want to talk about immediate business as the waiters remained in the room, talked about Zurich, the weather, the currency situation and the strengthening of the dollar. He was an expert at harmless small talk.

  Jamison, who hadn’t eaten since he had flown from Paradise City, ate well. He grunted, nodded, but made no effort to contribute to Felder’s gentle flow of waffle.

  Finally the meal ended. The waiters removed the dishes. It was then that Jamison came alive. He stared at Felder.

  ‘Now… what have you to tell me?’

  ‘I believe, Mr Jamison, with your approval, I have solved your problem,’ Felder said, relaxing back in an armchair and fingering the balloon glass of cognac the waiter had poured before leaving. ‘I don’t think I need to tell you that an American citizen, residing in the States, is not allowed to have an undeclared bank account in Switzerland. Further, although the Swiss banks will accept payments, they will not accept money that can be proved comes from criminal sources. This man Kling is a resident of the States and an American citizen. For the past five or six years, he has been using the Bovay Bank to pay in sums of money. Henri Bovay appears to be in debt to this man… some important favour, but we need not go into that. He has allowed Kling to pay in money without question of its origin. I have talked to Paul Bovay. He understands the problem. He is more than willing to co-operate.’ Felder paused to sip his excellent cognac. ‘I suggest, Mr Jamison, you pay into Kling’s account the five-million-dollar ransom demand. Bovay will notify Kling that the money has been placed to his credit.’

  ‘How will he do that?’ Jamison asked.

  ‘Naturally, Kling wouldn’t want an official receipt. Some letters with Swiss stamps are often examined by the American authorities. So it has been agreed between Henri Bovay and Kling that when money has been received into his account, he will receive a tourist postcard. In this case, he will get a postcard saying ‘Five of your friends are hoping to see you soon’ and signed with Bovay’s initials. That will tell Kling the five million has been paid into his account.’

  Jamison nodded.

  ‘Then…?’

  ‘Bovay will then alert the Zurich police that he has received ransom money and the kidnapper will claim it. Kling will have to come to the bank to claim the money and he will be arrested.’ Felder paused, then went on, ‘By the time it takes Kling to fly to Zurich, he will have released Mrs Jamison, convinced he has the money, and she will be safe.’

  ‘No,’ Jamison thought, his face expressionless, ‘she will be dead, and I will be free to marry Tarnia.’

  ‘You are sure this postcard will convince Kling the money has been paid?’

  ‘Bovay tells me so,’ Felder said. ‘Yes, I think there is no doubt about that.’

  ‘Then I see no reason why my wife shouldn’t be released.’ Jamison sat back, thinking. Yes! he told himself, as soon as Kling got the postcard he would murder Shannon. He now wanted to be rid of Felder so he could take a long, earnest look at this dangerous and complicated situation.

  ‘You have done extremely well, Felder,’ he said, and got to his feet. ‘Thank you. I take it the Organization will advance the five million quickly?’

  ‘No problem, Mr Jamison. We have plenty of liquid assets.’ Felder felt he was being dismissed. He hurriedly swallowed the last of the cognac and got to his feet.

  ‘I suppose it will take a few days for the postcard to reach Kling?’ Jamison asked.

  ‘Oh no. It will be sent express. I would say not more than two days.’

  ‘Have it addressed to Kling at the Star Motel, Paradise City. Kling is staying there. Go ahead, Felder, don’t let us waste any time.’

  The two men shook hands and Jamison ushered Felder from his suite.

  He then sat down, lit a cigar and considered the situation.

  Before leaving Zurich he had hit on what seemed to him to be a safe solution to avoid paying Kling.

  Kling’s plan for the police to find Shannon’s dead body in the trunk of a stolen car, plus two hundred thousand dollars, should convince the police that the kidnapper, who must be an amateur, had panicked, killed Shannon and bolted, leaving the ransom.

  If the police accepted that, then no suspicion could fall on either Kling or himself.

  Once Kling was convinced that he (Jamison) had carried out his side of the bargain, and Kling had received the postcard from his Swiss bank, he, being the professional that he was, would carry out his part
of the bargain.

  But by murdering Shannon Kling would deliver himself into Jamison’s hands.

  When Kling discovered he had been gypped of five million dollars, he would not dare carry out his threat to go to the District Attorney and report he had been hired by Jamison to kidnap Shannon and had done so, with no intention of harming her. Those tapes he had of his conversation with Jamison would no longer be incriminating unless Kling was prepared to face trial for murder. Jamison was sure that Kling, who had apparently no police record, would not risk being tried for murder. Kidnapping, yes, but murder, no! Even with the influence of the Mafia behind him, Kling would most certainly have to serve a lengthy prison sentence.

  Jamison nodded, satisfied with his thinking.

  He would now have to wait until the postcard arrived. Then he would see Kling again. Once he was sure Kling had murdered Shannon, he would tell Kling not to go to his Swiss bank to collect his money as the Swiss police would be waiting to arrest him. Kling would have to accept the fact that Jamison had outwitted him, and would fade out of the picture.

  Jamison frowned.

  But would Kling fade out of the picture?

  Jamison reminded himself he was dealing with a ruthless, professional killer. When he told Kling that he wasn’t getting the money, he might fly into a rage, produce his gun and kill him.

  Jamison thought about this. There was this unpleasant possibility. He must take precautions. He decided he would write out the whole account of his meeting with Lucan, his meeting with Kling, how Shannon’s murder had been arranged. He would include every detail. There would be no question of calling in a stenographer. He would have to do this himself.

  Well, he told himself, he had all night. When the document was completed, he would send it to his attorney: To be opened in the event of my death. He would borrow a photocopy machine from the hotel and have a copy for Felder, and certainly a copy for Kling. That would mean he would not have to see Kling again.

  He moved to the desk, sat down, found paper and in his small, neat handwriting began to write.

  * * *

  Ng Vee returned to the Star Motel a little after 13.00. He found Kling still in bed, still nursing his hangover, and in a surly mood.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Kling snarled.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Ng said. ‘I gave the lady lunch. Can I get you something?’

  Kling glared at him.

  ‘She’s got food there, hasn’t she? What’s the matter with you? She’ll be dead in a few days, so what the hell?’

  Ng flinched.

  ‘Can I get you something, sir?’

  ‘No. Leave me alone!’

  Ng went into the kitchen and closed the door.

  She’ll be dead in a few days!

  Tonight he would go to Jamison’s villa and kill him. That was the solution. That was the only solution!

  Sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, Ng thought back on the three hours he had spent with Shannon Jamison.

  Wonderful, marvellous hours!

  While he had been preparing lunch for her, she had come into the little kitchen and had talked, while she watched him cook. Little by little, she encouraged him to talk about himself. Her quiet, calm voice was a delight to him.

  He told her about his life in Saigon, about his mother, and how his master had rescued him from starvation.

  Shannon was careful not to inquire about this man who Ng called his master. She was now certain that this odd youth was desperately in love with her. She felt relief and confidence, sure she could rely on him.

  She had insisted that he should share the meal with her, and as they sat opposite each other she had told him about her love for music, a little about her religious faith, and as the meal was finishing she told him she was unable to have a child and how disappointed her husband was.

  Ng listened, enraptured that she should take him so much into her confidence. He nearly told her that her husband was planning her murder, but he refrained. This wasn’t the time. First, he had to get rid of Jamison, then he would set her free.

  She had praised his cooking and when he had cleared the dishes, asking her to leave them, as he would return the following day, she touched his hand.

  ‘Thank you, Kim. You have been very kind to me.’

  That night, after Kling had shaken off his hangover and had gone down to the Casino, Ng walked the two miles to Jamison’s villa.

  Not knowing that Jamison was in Zurich, Ng spent four frustrating hours, hidden in Jamison’s garden, waiting and watching.

  There were no lights showing in the lower rooms. He saw Smyth leave the villa and walk over to Conklin’s garage apartment.

  Finally, he decided that Jamison wasn’t going to appear. He didn’t want his master to return and find him absent.

  Well, tomorrow night, he thought, as he began the long hot walk back to the motel, he would try again.

  This man must be killed!

  * * *

  The following morning, Kling was in a better mood. After demolishing eggs and waffles, he said to Ng, ‘Let’s go have a swim, kid.’

  All Ng’s thoughts were now directed to Shannon.

  ‘I thought, sir, I would see the lady and prepare her lunch,’ he said, not looking at Kling.

  Kling regarded him, suddenly suspicious.

  ‘What goes on, kid?’ he demanded. ‘You’re not falling for that woman, are you?’

  Ng felt his mouth turn dry.

  ‘Oh, no, sir,’ he said, clearing the table. ‘I just thought…’

  ‘You prepare my lunch,’ Kling growled. ‘Never mind about her. She hasn’t long to live, and there’s food there. Come on. Let’s swim.’

  She hasn’t long to live!

  Ng nearly cried out. Controlling himself, he carried the dishes into the kitchen, then went to his room and put on swim-shorts.

  The two men, watched by Howard Jackson from his cabin window, went down to the sea.

  As Ng swam he told himself he must be very careful. On no account must his master know of his feelings for Shannon. So, when after lunch, Kling said he wanted to be driven to Key West to look at the scene, Ng, with sinking heart, kept his face expressionless. As he drove, he kept thinking of Shannon, wondering what she was doing, and wondering and hoping she wouldn’t be disappointed that he hadn’t visited her.

  Kling, apparently enjoying himself, went around Key West, visited the usual tourists’ haunts while Ng went with him.

  They didn’t return to the Star Motel until 19.00.

  ‘Quite an outing, kid,’ Kling said. ‘Well, me for a shower and I’ll go to the Casino. How about you? Want to come along?’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I will stay here.’ Ng thought he must return to Jamison’s villa in the hope the man he planned to kill would be there.

  ‘Please yourself, kid,’ Kling said, and went into his bedroom.

  Half an hour later, Kling, showered, shaved and wearing a lightweight suit, came into the living-room where Ng was polishing the dining-table.

  ‘I’m off,’ Kling said. ‘Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be late.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Kling started to move to the door, then paused.

  With his evil grin, he said, ‘Give me the key of the Whipping room, kid. I think I’d better keep it,’ and he held out his hand.

  Ng felt as if a fist of iron had hit him under his heart. Somehow, he managed to keep his face expressionless.

  ‘But, sir…’ he began, but Kling cut him short.

  With a snarl in his voice, he barked, ‘Give it to me!’

  Slowly Ng took the precious key from his pocket and Kling snatched it from him.

  ‘See you, kid,’ he said with his evil grin and, dropping the key into his pocket, he left the cabin.

  For a long moment of despair Ng stood motionless. He had first planned to visit Shannon before going to Jamison s villa. Now Kling had taken the key, this visit would be impossible. But why had Kling demanded the k
ey?

  Ng groaned to himself. His master must have guessed he was in love with this lovely woman!

  The only solution was to kill Jamison!

  Leaving the cabin, he walked the two hot miles to Jamison’s villa, arriving in the dark.

  He wasn’t to know that Jamison was in New York, having flown back from Zurich, and didn’t plan to return to Paradise City until the following day so Ng had another weary, frustrated wait for more than four hours without seeing Jamison.

  * * *

  The following morning, as Ng, who had spent a sleepless night, was preparing Kling’s breakfast, he hard a rap on the cabin door. He found one of the bus-boys who thrust a card at him.

  ‘For Mr Kling,’ the boy said. ‘Express.’

  When the boy left, Ng stared at the card. He saw it had a Swiss stamp and a Zurich postmark.

  Scrawled on the card was the message:

  Five of your best friends are waiting to see you here.

  Ng felt a chill run through him. What did this mean? Could it mean…? He shivered, then he heard Kling come out of his bedroom.

  ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Something for you.’

  Kling, who had spent a good evening on the beach with a plump redhead, was in a good mood. He took the card, read the message, then released a soft yell of triumph that made Ng stiffen.

  ‘Kid! We’re home!’ Kling said, and gave Ng a slight punch on his chest. ‘I’ve got the money! Kid! Can you believe it? I’m worth five million dollars! Five million dollars! You hear me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Ng felt so bad he wanted to throw up. ‘I’ll get your breakfast,’ and he went into the kitchen.

  So his plan to save Shannon by killing Jamison was no more. Trembling, he served the two eggs and grilled ham on a plate and put it before Kling who was seated at the table, humming and rubbing his hands.

  ‘Let’s talk, kid,’ Kling said. ‘Sit down. Aren’t you eating anything?’

  ‘No, sir.’ His legs weak, Ng sat down at the table.

  ‘You’re a character, kid, but I like you,’ Kling said as he began to eat. ‘Remember when we first met? You dirty and starving? They’ve been good days since then together, haven’t they?’