1970 - There's a Hippie on the Highway

by James Hadley Chase

  The suitcase he was carrying suddenly seemed to him to be red hot. He waited, watching Lepski push his way unceremoniously through the crowd.

  Lepski planted himself in front of Harry: his ice blue eyes probing.

  ‘Remember me?’ he demanded in a tough cop voice.

  Harry met the stare without flinching.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Detective Lepski . . . the officer who wondered if I could swim.’

  ‘That’s me.’ Lepski paused, a little thrown out of his stride by Harry s apparent unconcern. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘If it’s any of your business, I’m collecting my bag,’ Harry said.

  ‘That your bag?’ Lepski stared at the white plastic suitcase in Harry’s hand, scowling at it.

  ‘Sure. I left it here last night. Now I’m working for Solo I need my things. Any other questions?’

  Lepski bristled ‘Don’t get smart Mitchell! I don’t like smart guys in this City.’

  ‘You don’t? Who do you like? Dummies?’

  Lepski’s tanned face darkened.

  ‘I said don’t get smart! Where are you from?’

  Harry took from his shirt pocket the plastic folder containing his papers and offered them ‘If you’re that curious, Mr. Lepski, go ahead and have yourself a ball.’

  Lepski took the papers, read, taking his time, then he carefully folded the papers, returned them to their plastic cover and handed it back.

  ‘Paratrooper, huh?’ He regarded Harry now with a respectful expression ‘Okay, Sergeant, excuse me. You’re welcome here. We get a lot of bums through this City. It’s one of my jobs to put a rocket under their tails. No hard feelings?’ and he offered his hand.

  Harry shook hands.

  ‘No hard feelings.’

  ‘You staying long, Sergeant?’

  ‘A couple of months. I have a job waiting for me in New York. I came here for some sun and air.’

  ‘You’ve come to the right place.’ Lepski scratched the end of his nose, then asked, ‘Did Solo tell you Baldy Riccard called on him, Sergeant?’

  Harry’s face remained expressionless.

  ‘No, Mr. Lepski. He said nothing like that.’

  ‘Didn’t he say anything about me after I left him?’

  ‘Oh sure. He said you were a very smart cop and a very ambitious one.’

  Lepski looked pleased.

  ‘He’s a smart old coot. One of these days I’ll come out to his place and bring my wife.’

  ‘He’ll be pleased.’

  ‘You think so?’ Lepski laughed. ‘I wouldn’t bet on that. Well so long: happy vacation,’ and he walked away, shoving through the crowd to the exit.

  Harry drew in a deep breath. He was aware he was sweating.

  He crossed the reception lobby, then leaving the airport, he made his way to the car park.

  He put the suitcase on the passenger’s seat of the car, got in, started the engine and drove the car out of the parking lot.

  Because the unexpected meeting with Lepski had shaken him a little, his instincts for trouble were alerted. There had been long hours when he had taken a patrol through the jungle that this instinct had saved him whereas it hadn’t saved some of his men who followed him and who had allowed their alertness to become slack. Harry’s instinct for danger was highly developed and even now, after three months from the jungle, it still functioned.

  As he swung the car around so that it headed for the airport exit, he spotted a dusty green and white Chevrolet back out fast, squeal to a stop, swing around and come after him. In his driving mirror, Harry saw the driver was a squat, dark complexioned man, wearing a panama hat pulled well down to half conceal his features.

  At any other time, Harry would have ignored the car, but in his present state of alertness, he wondered about it. He drove to the highway and pulled up at the stop sign, his flasher indicating that he was turning right. On his driving mirror he saw the Chevrolet slowing, its right flasher coming on.

  Harry edged his way into the oncoming traffic and drove with the traffic, keeping to the near side. From time to time, he glanced into the driving mirror and saw the Chevrolet was behind him.

  Was he imagining the car was following him? He wondered.

  The car had so positioned itself behind two other cars, its licence plate was hidden. The car was with him still as he reached the turn off to the Dominico Restaurant. As he turned, he slowed and watched the Chevrolet go past and saw the driver’s head turn to stare at the back of the estate car.

  Harry drove into the restaurant’s car park, left the estate car and started towards his cabin, carrying the suitcase, as Solo appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  Solo was scowling. His heavy, fat face was dark with anger.

  ‘You don’t take my car without asking me,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘I don’t hire you to go rides in my car!’

  Harry paused. He regarded Solo, his eyes alert.

  ‘I told Randy to tell you why I took the car,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve been ordering the hand rails for the high dive board.’

  Solo snorted angrily.

  ‘I don’t take messages. Your job is to look after the beach. If you want hand rails, you tell me!’

  Harry walked slowly forward until he was facing Solo. He looked directly into the little, angry eyes.

  ‘Okay, from now on, I’ll look after the beach and you take care of the high dive board if you still want it.’

  He stared at Solo for a long moment, then turned and started down the sandy path towards his cabin.

  ‘Hey! Harry!’

  Harry turned.

  ‘When are those hand rails going to be delivered?’

  ‘In seven days.’

  Solo shifted awkwardly. He cleared his throat, then rubbed the back of his neck.

  ‘So you look after it, hey? So you forget what I said, hey?’

  Harry walked back until he again faced Solo.

  ‘If you want it that way,’ he said. ‘It’s your business, Solo. You please yourself.’

  ‘So we do it your way.’

  ‘If that’s what you want.’ Harry hesitated, then went on, ‘I told you: I haven’t any patience with people who have no reason to act mean. Excuse my impatience.’

  Solo grinned sheepishly. He patted Harry on his shoulder.

  ‘You’re right. Okay, Harry, take the goddamn car whenever you want it. Forget it, hey?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten it.’ Harry moved a little closer. ‘Hit me with that jab of yours . . . there’s something wrong about it.’

  Solo’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Throw your punch, Solo.’

  The punch came and slid along Harry’s ribs.

  ‘Very smart boy,’ Solo said, his eyes showing his disappointment.

  ‘You have a fine punch, but you’re throwing it wrong,’ Harry said. ‘Your elbow is away from your body. Keep it close like a golf swing. Try again.’

  He braced himself as Solo’s fist smashed into his side. He was lifted off his feet and he thudded flat on his back. He lay still, stunned, feeling the jar of the punch go through his body. He had deliberately leaned into the punch knowing this was the only way to make Solo happy.

  Solo dropped on his knees and caught hold of Harry’s head.

  ‘Sweet Maria! Are you all right? I didn’t mean it, Harry. I’m sorry . . .’

  Harry shoved the hot, sweating hands from his head and sat up. He put his hand to his aching ribs, then he grinned.

  ‘That would have sat even Dempsey on his pants,’ he said. ‘You sure have a fine punch, Solo . . . phew I . . .’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Solo was still worried.

  Harry got slowly to his feet and began to dust the sand off his slacks.

  ‘Sure.’ He rubbed his ribs. ‘You remember to keep your elbow in, and you’re the boss.’

  Solo grinned delightedly.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. You throw a mean punch too, Harry, but
maybe we’re in the same class, hey?’

  Harry knew then he would have no further trouble with Solo.

  ‘Weight counts, Solo. A good big ‘un will always beat a good little ‘un.’ He gave Solo a sharp dig in the ribs. ‘Boss!’

  Solo squirmed with delight.

  ‘Well, maybe. You get on the beach now, hey? I get back to the cooking.’

  Harry picked up the suitcase.

  ‘Be right with it.’

  Solo’s eyes went to the white suitcase with its band of red.

  ‘That your stuff?’

  ‘Yeah . . . I picked it up now I’m staying.’

  ‘Sure, you’re staying.’ Solo patted Harry’s shoulder. ‘You fix the high dive board, hey?’

  ‘I’ll fix it.’

  Harry left him and made his way to his cabin. As he pushed open the door, he became aware how flimsy it was. He entered the cabin, stripped off his clothes and put on trunks. He then tried the catches on the suitcase, but found them locked. This wasn’t the time to see what was inside the case. Solo would be expecting him to be on the beach any minute now. He hesitated, then decided the cabin wasn’t the place in which to leave the case.

  He carried the case outside, made sure no one was watching him, then took the case to the back of the cabin where a big pile of deck chairs were stacked. He buried the suitcase under the chairs, smoothed down the sand where his footprints showed, then returned to the cabin. From his rucksack he took a reel of black cotton He snapped off a length of cotton, left the cabin, closed the door, then fixed the cotton across the bottom of the door so that if someone entered the cabin, the cotton would snap.

  Then he walked down to the beach.

  He saw Charlie and Mike, the two coloured helps, carrying trays of drinks to the people lounging under the sun umbrellas.

  He paused to look at the fourth umbrella under which Carlos and his wife had been lying. The man had gone, but the woman was still there, reading a magazine.

  He felt an urge of curiosity to see her at close quarters. He walked over to where she was lying and paused by her.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, Mrs. Carlos?’ he asked, the woman put down her magazine and looked up at him.

  Her big sun goggles partially hid her face, but he saw her nose was short, her mouth small; her lips, carefully painted, were thin. He guessed she would be closer to forty than thirty: a woman who took care of herself with a long history of massage, sauna baths, daily visits to the hairdresser: a contestant in the battle most women make to look younger than they are. He felt the hidden eyes behind the sun goggles quizzing him.

  ‘No, thank you.’ Her voice carried a faint accent that Harry thought he recognised. He was now almost certain this was the woman who had been driving the Mustang. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Harry Mitchell, the new lifeguard around here.’

  ‘Hello, Harry.’ She smiled. ‘Solo will tell you we - my husband and I - are often here. Can you swim? The last boy Solo hired . . .’ She lifted her hands and laughed.

  ‘Do you swim, Mrs. Carlos?’

  She looked at him.

  ‘Probably better than you.’

  ‘Is that right? I’m going in now. Do you bet, Mrs. Carlos?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Not on a dark horse.’

  ‘If you’re so good, how about a fifty yard start to that raft and ten dollars to one?’

  ‘My! My! You must think you are good. Can you afford to lose ten dollars?’

  ‘That’s my business, isn’t it, Mrs. Carlos?’

  ‘Excuse me.’ She stared up at him, then shook her head. ‘No. I am good, but now I can see you would be better. I’ll have a gin and tonic instead.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Carlos.’ His tone was curt. That she had thought he couldn’t cover a bet angered him. He turned abruptly and headed for Charlie who had distributed his last drink. Seeing him coming, Charlie ran to him, grinning widely. Harry told him to take Mrs. Carlos a gin and tonic, then he walked away until he reached a pedal boat. He sat on it, his anger still gnawing at him.

  Had she recognized him as he had recognized her? He wondered.

  She had given no sign that she might have recognized him, but that didn’t mean anything. She was very sophisticated and cool: not a woman to be fazed easily. He frowned down at the sand. Was he mistaken? He thought again of the woman in the Mustang: the same build: the same accent, but, of course, he could be mistaken. What would the wife of a man as wealthy as Carlos be doing with a dead body? It didn’t make sense.

  He stroked his nose and looked across the hot sand to where the woman was lying. She had picked up her magazine and was reading again.

  Irritated that it was now a problem he couldn’t immediately solve, he shrugged, pushed himself off the pedal boat and walked down to the sea. He stood watching the bathers, thinking of the woman and thinking of the white plastic suitcase.

  It wasn’t until just before dinner that Harry was able to return to his cabin. A blonde, plump teenager had come up to him, flushed and giggling, and had asked him for a swimming lesson.

  At the end of half an hour, there was another giggling girl waiting.

  By their prowess, Harry knew both of them could swim and they were making this an excuse to fool around with him. This was part of the job, and he went through the motions.

  There was then a constant demand for drinks and he had to help Charlie and Mike to handle the rush. It wasn’t until 19.00 hrs. when the bathers had gone in for a shower before changing for dinner that he found himself free to go to his cabin.

  He paused at the door to check the black cotton and his eyes narrowed as he saw the cotton was snapped. He pushed open the door and entered the stuffy little room. He looked around. Nothing had apparently been disturbed, but he knew someone had been in there.

  He stepped cautiously out and looked to right and left, then he went around to the back of the cabin and checked that the suitcase was still under the pile of deck chairs. Satisfied, he took a shower, put on slacks and a shirt and went along to the kitchen for dinner.

  He was the only one to sit down at the table. Neither Nina nor Manuel was there and Solo was busy at the stove. Solo grinned cheerfully at him.

  ‘You go ahead,’ he said. ‘I see you were giving lessons, hey? Nice cuddly girls, hey? Everyone is very pleased, Harry. I’m pleased too.’

  Joe produced a plate of Chicken Maryland with fried bananas.

  ‘You’re trying to make me fat,’ Harry said.

  Solo laughed.

  ‘You need good food . . . a big man like you. You need food like 1 need food.’ He paused to peer into the oven. ‘Mrs. Carlos was asking about you. She’s very interested in you.’ Solo shut

  the oven door and winked at Harry. ‘She’s my best and richest customer.’

  Harry cut into the chicken.

  ‘What did she want to know?’

  ‘Who you are . . . where you come from . . . how you got here . . .’

  Harry regarded the morsel of chicken on his fork.

  ‘How I got here? What’s that mean?’

  Solo began to baste the five chickens turning on the rotor grill.

  ‘Women ask the goddamnedest questions. She wanted to know if you came by road.’

  Harry laid down his fork.

  ‘So what did you tell her?’

  Solo stared at him.

  ‘I told her you came with Randy on the thumb. Did I say anything wrong?’

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘That’s how we came. Is she staying for dinner?’

  ‘She never has dinner here. Lunch . . . not dinner. She’s gone home.’

  Solo began to cut up the chickens, whistling under his breath.

  Harry ate. So she now knew who he was and her question made it certain she was the woman in the Mustang. So what followed?

  He finished his meal without enjoying it, then got to his feet.

  ‘I’m going to the bar. Randy might need a hand.’


  ‘Sure,’ Solo was scarcely listening. He was arranging with loving care pieces of chicken on a salver, adding fried bananas, cherries and pineapple.

  Harry walked past the restaurant. There were some forty people dining. Manuel was darting around the tables. Nina, in a scarlet pyjama suit, was standing at a table talking to four men. They were looking up at her, laughing, their eyes stripping her.

  Harry entered the deserted bar. Randy was washing glasses.

  He looked at Harry, lifting his eyebrows inquiringly.

  Harry quickly told him that he had collected the suitcase, that he had run into Lepski and was now sure that Mrs. Carlos was the woman in the Mustang.

  Randy listened, a glass suspended in his hand, his eyes startled.

  ‘Not Mrs. Carlos . . . that’s crazy!’ he said when Harry paused. ‘I don’t dig for that.’

  ‘Then why did she ask if we came by road?’ Harry sat on a stool and rested his elbows on the counter. ‘The same build: the same accent. . . and now this question. It’s her all right.’

  Randy put down the glass.

  ‘But she’s stinking rich! What . . . I mean . . . what the hell does it mean?’

  Harry lit a cigarette.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe we’ll get a clue from the suitcase. When are you free?’

  ‘Not before 23.30.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll wait for you.’ Nodding, Harry left the bar. He walked along the path that led past the kitchen and glanced through the open window. Solo was occupied, his back turned. Joe was standing by him, holding a dish. Without stopping Harry continued on towards his cabin. As he approached the shrubbery screening the cabins he became aware of a movement ahead of him. He stopped short, tense, as he peered into the darkness. He was sure that someone ahead of him had moved into the shadows by his cabin. He stepped swiftly and silently off the path and flattened himself against the trunk of a tree. He waited, his eyes searching the shadows.

  He heard the scratch of a match and a tiny flame flared up. In the light of the flame he saw Nina’s face, framed by her black, glistening hair. She lit a cigarette, then dropped the match.

  Harry hesitated, then stepped back onto the path and walked towards the red, glowing end of her cigarette.

  As he came up to her, he smelt the subtle perfume she was wearing. It was too dark to see much of her, but he could just make out her shadowy outline. Again he felt the violent stab of desire go through him: something he had hoped was to torment him no longer.